


edge of the season

by tangeton



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, I can't believe you've done this, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-11-24 13:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18165713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangeton/pseuds/tangeton
Summary: Madara awakens the Rinnegan 50 years too early and it’s all Hashirama’s fault. Taking responsibility for the potential annihilation of the known world and his friend’s fragile grip on reality has never been so difficult.





	1. The distance between us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parting is such sweet sorrow, but Hashirama is determined to prevent this goodbye from being the last.

It feels like an eternity since he’s done this last—staking out his targets in the dark in the manner typical of shinobi, gathering intelligence in the shadows to the background of the cicadas of early spring. The only difference between now and then is the knowledge that he is safe within village boundaries and not in the midst of enemy territory. It’s almost enough to lull him into a sense of security.

But his target tonight is far from ordinary. By the same token, neither is he. The forest shrouds him as one of their own, the child of the forest that he is, until he is indistinguishable from the scenery. This extra precaution is not unwarranted; his target knows him just as well as he knows his target.

He hasn’t taken the time to admire the shimmering lights of the night sky since the founding of the village almost a year ago.

Among other things, it’s just something else to regret.

The incongruous creak of a gate draws his attentions from the heavens back down to the earth. A figure in black emerges from behind a door and he feels a momentary sorrow that no one has taken note of these secret excursions until now. No one has stopped him from leaving, and no one knows if this departure will be the last; no one _cares_.

He shows his concern in the imperceptible, slow growth of roots beneath shuffling sandals, and with impeccable timing, pushes _up._

Hashirama Senju ensnares Madara Uchiha in the most overplanned, blown-out-of-proportion version of a prank in almost a decade, and it’s almost a waste of his best _shunshin_ when he tackles his best friend to the ground. Not that he needs the help—the root did trip him up pretty well.

It’s a testament to Madara’s reflexes that Hashirama just narrowly manages to derail the kunai speeding towards his neck with his sword. It doesn’t surprise him at all to find that he’s staring into the blood-red gaze of the Mangekyō Sharingan. He meets Madara’s gaze unflinchingly; the kunai was superfluous. “What the— _Hashirama?”_

“Madara,” Hashirama says, making sure to wear his sternest look, but he’s self-aware enough to admit that it comes out looking more like a pout. The fact that Madara hasn’t yet withdrawn his weapon doesn’t escape his attention. The hollow, gaping feeling returns and Hashirama returns his sword to its sheath first with deliberate care. “I’m disappointed in you. Have you been slacking? You should’ve seen me coming a mile away.”

Madara goggles at him before finally withdrawing his kunai. “You ambushed me to—to test my skills?”

“No, I came to drag you back to the village,” Hashirama huffs, pushing off of Madara’s chest to move off him and offering his hand. He watches Madara bristle visibly at both his suggestion and at the outstretched hand. But he is gratified to find the feeling of a gloved hand in his own and he pulls Madara up and back onto his feet.

“Your effort is wasted here,” Madara informs him, turning away to continue down the path out of the village. He knows Madara is too prideful to show Hashirama the anger in his expression, but he’s never been good at keeping it out of his voice. He stifles a sigh and follows. “Besides, I’ve been doing this _alone_ for the last three months and no one has ever stopped me.”

“I’m doing it now,” Hashirama says firmly. This has got to stop, he’s let this go on for too long. This is the part of the conversation that he has been dreading for the three hours he’s waited in the trees. Talking with Madara nowadays feels like treading on thin ice when it used to feel like a highlight. He misses it, their easy camaraderie, like an amputee misses a limb. “We can’t be antagonizing—terrorizing—every neighboring clan that doesn’t agree with us. We’ll never gain their cooperation that way. It doesn’t foster loyalty at all, just resentment.”

Madara doesn’t even spare him a glance. “They will fall into line. Between death and compliance, there is no real choice.” He snorts, and a flicker of red diverts itself momentarily in his direction, derisive. “What is the point of all the power you wield if you don’t even use it? Power will keep them in line, not some flimsy sense of loyalty. You can’t trust loyalty.”

For a brief moment, Hashirama hates himself and the power he has. The notes of resentment and envy reveal themselves clearly in Madara’s voice because he wears his heart for everyone to hear in it. Is that how Madara truly feels? That on the day of their armistice, it was either truce with the Senju or die? More than anything else, Hashirama hates the notion that he has coerced Madara into accepting a false peace, mislead him into accepting a broken philosophy. Their peace was supposed to be the example, not based on a lie.

He has to fix this. He just doesn’t know how, or if it’s too late.

“There is power in conviction,” Hashirama tells him, reaching out to place a hand on his armored shoulder, “you’ll find that people will do more for you when they’re willing, not subjugated. Ruling like a dictator is not an effective long-term strategy, Madara.”

“I’m not interested in efficiency, you naïve _fool_ , I’m interested in _peace,_ ” Madara snarls at him, violently shrugging off his hand and increasing his pace to pull ahead and away from him. “If all you’re going to do is nag me, go back to the village and leave me to my work. At least I’m doing something with my time to help the village, unlike you.”

Nothing ever worth doing came easy. It took a decade to make peace with the Uchiha, and if it took a decade more to make peace with Madara, it would be a decade well-spent.

“If you think I’m going to leave you to fight alone, think again!” Hashirama sings after him, putting in a burst of speed, chakra pooling in his toes. “It’ll be fun! We haven’t gone on a mission together in ages, we can camp out together and stuff! Wait, who are we fighting again?”

Madara’s frustration could probably be heard as far as Iwa.

“You’re such a pest, Hashirama, go away!”

 

* * *

 

One of the things he likes most about Madara is that he’s _curious._ And that’s why while he’s capable of maintaining a good, even commendable stony silence, he can’t help but be the first one to break it, ironically enough. It makes teasing him several orders of magnitude more fun.

“How—how long were you waiting up in those trees, anyway?” The sound of Madara’s voice after almost two hours of the cold shoulder washes over Hashirama like cool water to a parched man. In the corner of his eye, he sees Madara’s shoulders slump with defeat as his own face brightens. “And is it really a good idea to leave the village unprotected?”

Hashirama gives him a flat stare. “Unprotected? Did you conveniently forget that we formed a settlement full of shinobi? They’re hardly defenseless. The Senju and Uchiha are the strongest clans in the Land of Fire, not to mention the allied clans we’ve managed to gather under our banner.”

“It just doesn’t feel right leaving it without one of us in it to guard it,” Madara says, crossing his arms. His intuition tells him that Madara isn’t frustrated with Hashirama’s unexpected company; it seems more like he’s frustrated with himself. “I was fine leaving knowing you were there to guard it, but now that we’re both out...”

“I’m flattered that you think so highly of my abilities,” he says, and he really is, “but you have to admit, all these clans that we’ve gathered are pretty formidable. Trust them to do the hard work once in a while, hmm? Give them a chance to earn their keep.” He can’t help but let out a boisterous laugh—completely unwise for a ninja to do in the dead of night, but he doesn’t care—and slings an arm around Madara’s hunched shoulders. “You have to admit that you and I are the exception, not the standard.”

Hashirama has known Madara long enough to recognize how the edges of Madara’s eyes soften. “Yes, I suppose we are.” He doesn’t hold his gaze for long and he turns his head to stare at something far off in the trees. When he looks back, he’s smirking. “I revise my question. Is it a good idea to leave the village in Tobirama’s hands?”

“Uh,” Hashirama says, letting Madara go and scratching the back of his head sheepishly, “if we finish this mission quickly, I’m sure that it’ll be the same village we left...”

The huff from his left is what passes for Uchiha laughter, though it’s pretty weak compared to the one he’s familiar with. He’s actually pretty over-the-moon to hear it, really. No matter how quiet it is. He hasn’t heard Madara laugh in almost half-a-year and he’s ashamed to admit that it’s probably his fault, just like everything that he’s let happen to Madara since their truce. The administration and expansion of the village has been consuming his time, but he finds it a pitiful excuse for neglecting his friend.

Madara hasn’t been himself—and while Tobirama is fond of harping on about what a danger Madara is to the village with increasing fervor, it was only last night that that Tobirama had shown a significant measure of personal concern. His nightly escapades had reached Uchiha ears, and rumor had it that they were growing wary of their leader. Hashirama usually ignored his warnings and he’d been ready to dismiss it as unfounded, but—

He wouldn’t have let himself be surprised like that. His ambush, no matter how well-planned out in advance, no matter how skilled Hashirama was, should have failed. Madara was a better sensor than himself, possibly better than even Tobirama on his best day. He should have seen Hashirama no matter how good his nature camouflage had been.

And that was why he refused to let Madara venture out into danger alone. By some miracle he’d escaped mortal danger so far, but shinobi achieved success— _survived_ —by listening to their instincts, and Hashirama knows that something bad is going to happen soon.

Besides that, there was also the festering problem of Madara’s self-imposed mission of warring against independent clans. It was politically detrimental, and though Madara hadn’t threatened any powerful clans yet, he and Tobirama had already faced challenges fending off the demands for concessions from the broken clans. It was a double-edged sword—Hashirama would never tell Madara this on pain of death, but other clans grew to admire or fear Madara’s strength and had come forward to negotiate their safety. But it ran _entirely_ against his concept of peace through negotiation, and he would not sit idly and watch as Madara’s warpath tore apart what little trust survived the Warring States Era.

In a way, Madara was right. Power expressed through violence was the loudest voice in the era they’d just left, and for a long time, it worked on a smaller scale with clan alliances. But what had been didn’t have to be the template for what could be. Shinobi fought and as long as they had the power to, and he felt that they always would, for whatever causes they believed in to be right—it was simply who they were. But the entire point of the village system was to prevent them from fighting for such base needs as security, to turn their skills to something more productive like the well-being of others. He had hoped to turn shinobi from the mercenary tools of feudal lords to protectors.

He thought that they’d shared this point of view. Maybe he had before Hashirama had dropped the ball.

In truth, he has not the faintest idea about how to deal with this. It had already been a struggle to piece together how they’d even gotten to this point.

He had plenty of reasons to follow Madara out on his quest like the pest he claimed he was. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself after if something had happened to him when he could have done something about it.

“So you didn’t answer my question earlier,” Hashirama ventures, briefly twisting around to adjust the Scroll of Seals on his back. “What clan are you warring against this time?”

“Don’t pretend to care, I know you disapprove,” Madara says, distant again. The toneless reprimand makes Hashirama’s nose wrinkle involuntarily. “But it’s the Hagoromo. They’ve been making threats to dam the water supply to the village unless we entertain their foolish notion of trading for food.”

“The Hagoromo?” Hashirama repeats, thinking back to their first meeting and the body floating down the river. It was a clan name that had crossed his desk only a few times in recent months, mostly from the regular security reports. They were, by all indication, a rather harmless clan. They had no remarkable bloodline of their own or secret techniques except perhaps their affinity for Water Release, but they had always managed to hold their position at the head of the river system, which gave them a geopolitical strength to compensate for their lack of unique ninjutsu, which was a virtue all on its own. Their river base likely explained the body they’d seen that day. But he doesn’t remember anything about a trade negotiation. Perhaps he’s just been behind in reports. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t negotiate. It’s not as if they’re demanding food from us and it’s not like we don’t have other sources of water. They’re offering a trade, right?”

Madara’s sudden halt and Hashirama’s inattention cause their shoulders to collide, and the red ceramic plates of their armor clatter against each other, discordant. “Negotiate?” He thinks he can see the flyaway strands of Madara’s hair stand up with his fury. His expression is nothing if not the very definition of disgust. “I cannot _believe_ you—if it weren’t for me or, and I hate to say it, _Tobirama_ , you would rend the village to pieces to appease anyone who asks.” By the way that Madara’s fingers inch towards his hair, he might be missing more than a few strands by the end of this mission. “It’s the principle of the matter! They have no right to demand anything of us! If anything, _we_ have the strength to command _them!”_

He sighs, reaching out to pry Madara’s gloved hands from his hair. Amusing as Tobirama’s reaction might be to the appearance of bald patches, he thinks Madara would thrash him later for not stopping him. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, holding his hands firmly in his own to keep him from throttling him. “Just promise me that we’ll talk first, ninjutsu later?”

Madara gives him no promises but a pointed silence as he stares at their joined hands. Then he yanks them out of his grip, crossing his arms again and continuing down the path without looking to see if Hashirama is following. “Fine. But do not blame me if they end up a few ninja short of a clan.”

 

* * *

 

“It really is good to get out more often,” he hums, cheek resting on his palm as he watches Madara chew through his dry rations bar. It’s three hours to sunrise and Madara has decided on a short nap before they lose the cover of night. “Is that why you’ve been going out? You miss nature?”

Madara looks up at him with suspicion. He doesn’t even attempt to hide it either, classic Madara. “Is this your poor attempt at fishing for information?” It’s a strange time to be eating breakfast, but he finishes it and moves back to recline against the base of the tree, closing his eyes. “The village isn’t so developed that I would consider it separate from nature, so no. I do not _miss_ the fresh air.” He cracks open an eye. “I get enough freshness from you, anyway.”

“I—” Really, he could cry. He’s teasing him again. You never really know what you’re missing until it’s gone. He opens his mouth to tell him that _‘I’ve been a model friend, I don’t know what you’re talking about!’_ and promptly clamps his mouth shut because he _hasn’t_ been. Instead, he says, “Well, I’ll prove how respectable I am by taking first watch.”

It’s clearly not the response that Madara expected. He can tell by the pinch of his brow as he thinks this over. “No, get some sleep.”

“You don’t trust the village’s safety without one of us there but you’re fine with our safety with both of us unconscious?”

Madara scowls. “I’ll summon something, you idiot.” He makes the summoning seals required for a summoning jutsu and slams his hand on the ground, producing a puff of smoke characteristic of the technique. The smoke clears shortly to reveal a hawk of pure white, its pinions streaked with black. The overall effect is rather regal and it helps that the hawk is a little over two feet tall. The look Madara gives it is—well, he would call it adoring if it weren’t Madara he was trying to describe. “Randori, keep watch.”

The bird, Randori, clicks its beak in the affirmative and beats its great wings once, twice, before taking off to land in Madara’s hair, messing it up playfully before finally taking off past the trees and into the sky. He looks rather disgruntled by the end of it, but Hashirama has to admit that he looks rather fond in spite of the bird’s antics.

“Really? _‘Catch’?”_ He sinks further down against the tree; containing his mirth is a futile endeavor. “You really aren’t good with names, so unimaginative.”

Madara throws up his hands. “It’s impossible to talk with you!”

“I haven’t seen that bird around,” Hashirama manages to say through his laughter. He thinks he’ll always treasure the memory of Randori making a literal bird’s nest out of Madara’s already-unruly hair. It’s a pity that he doesn’t have the Sharingan and all its associated memory benefits. “I think I would remember a hawk as beautiful as that and with such a personality, too.”

“I’ve had her since—” Madara freezes, a shadow passing over his features that has nothing to do with the clouds passing over the moon. Hashirama immediately regrets his comment and opens his mouth to apologize because he knows what’s coming, but Madara continues over him. “She was Izuna’s. Then she was mine.”

Sometimes Hashirama feels every bit the idiot his brother accuses him of being. “She’s in good hands, then,” Hashirama manages at last, looking down at his knees. “And she’ll take good care of you.”

“Hm,” Madara says after a while, reaching up to smooth his hair down again. Hashirama breathes a sigh of relief—he isn’t offended. “You don’t have an animal summon? I’ve never seen you summon an animal in all of the battles we’ve had together.” _And we’ve had many battles,_ he doesn’t say.

“Not unless you like Rashōmons,” Hashirama says, his hands making a chopping motion mimicking the fall of gates from the sky.

He thinks he’s getting better at making him laugh.

 

* * *

 

Hashirama wakes to the sensation of being kicked in the ribs. It doesn’t hurt because the offending limb is targeting his chest plate, but the rhythmic thumps do make an effective alarm clock. He sits up and is met with an unimpressed face.

“We’re late.” They’re not late at all. It’s barely past dawn. “Come on.”

He sighs, hopping to his feet. The long skirt of Madara’s outer coat sways with his quick pace and Hashirama has a better idea. He directs chakra to his feet and leaps to the branches, propelling himself forwards until he’s ahead of Madara, then dropping down and dangling off a low-hanging branch, his long brown hair falling like a barrier preventing Madara from walking past. “Hey, race you?”

Madara’s single visible eye narrows at him. “Juvenile. That is beneath me.” But for a brief second, his gaze flickers up to the branches above and—and he’s disappeared. Ugh, how scandalous; he used _shunshin_ to lose him using the same trick he once used to catch him off-guard. Hashirama rights himself immediately and speeds in the direction of the mouth of the river system, sensing his friend somewhere above him and to the right.

The Senju pride themselves on their connection to the forest, but what they conveniently like to forget is that the Uchiha have just as strong an affinity to the cover of trees as they do, even if they do have that destructive affinity for fire. It is one of the biggest reasons why their generational wars continually failed to push each other out of the forests of the Land of Fire—a mix of pride, familiarity, and evenly-matched skill.

Even now, he has to admire Madara’s speed. His chakra signature cuts through the foliage like a knife, and Hashirama is forced to admit that when it comes to speed, he has him beat. If only he’d bothered Tobirama for that new teleportation technique he’d been developing.

It’s good that he doesn’t play fair, then. He grins and extends his chakra out and through the network of trees, reaching for the branches ahead of Madara. Judging by the momentary pause in the movement of his signature, it worked. That made it twice in one day that he’d tripped him. He uses this opportunity to overtake him in the boughs above.

There’s a short curse from behind him and despite himself, he chances a glance back.

Madara has unstrapped the ancestral gunbai from his back. He refuses to admit that the sound that tears its way out of his throat resembles anything close to a yelp.

Before he can stop to glue himself to a tree with his chakra, a great gust of wind sweeps up beneath him, separating his feet from the branches and flinging him up a good four feet in the air before he’s able to grow out a branch to cling to.

He’s a terrible ninja and Butsuma Senju would be severely disappointed.

This would never happen in a battle, he swears to himself as he follows the sound of Madara’s triumphant laughter. He was just having too much fun to react as he should’ve. Well, if it were a battle, that blast of wind chakra would’ve torn him to shreds so it was useless to dwell on hypotheticals.

Hashirama lands with a splash on the river surface right next to Madara’s intolerably smug expression.

“You cheated,” he sniffs, falling into a crouch and drawing circles in the water. “And here you had me thinking you were the honorable sort.”

Madara snorts above him, disbelieving. Even if he’s not looking up, the accompanying eye-roll is almost tangible. “Oh, don’t you pull that on me. You did it first!”

“Now who’s childish? The burden of proof is on you, you know,” Hashirama tells him, pulling his head up from his knees and revealing his broad smile. Before Madara can grab and attempt to drown him in the river, he stands up and jumps just out of reach. “Anyway, about the Hagoromo. Leave the talking to me, okay? I wouldn’t want you to scare everyone to death within a two-mile radius before we even start negotiating.”

Madara’s expression turns thunderous. “You’d better not give them any footholds. I won’t tolerate it. If you do that, all bets are off.”

“Yes, yes,” Hashirama says, waving a hand dismissively. But his mind was still stuck on the—well, that it was strange that he didn’t know about the Hagoromo proposal first. It was plausible that rumor travelled faster than paperwork, but they were such a small clan. He doesn’t like anything about this; it feels like the calm before the storm. “Leave it to me.”

The scrutiny that he’s treated to is expected and welcome. It makes him feel close to normal for a brief moment in time. Then Madara nods his approval and starts stepping in the direction of the Hagoromo camp. “Come on then.”

They walk against the current for almost ten minutes before he first notices something wrong. The chakra signatures collected together up ahead are fewer in number than intelligence would suggest. Madara seems to have come to the same conclusion—the Sharingan blazes to life as they exchange nods and walk back to the riverbank. As a specialist in fire, Madara is more comfortable fighting away from places that might give Water Release specialists the advantage. It’s this thought that suggests that maybe they’re walking into a trap designed for Madara.

Another five minutes pass before they see the first sentinels. But they’re in no state to greet them.

That’s not to say that they were dead, simply unconscious, their bodies lying side-by-side on the bank of the river. He can see the rise and fall of their chests and they almost look peaceful in their sleep. He looks to his companion for answers. “Genjutsu,” Madara says shortly, the pattern of his Sharingan spinning briefly. “It’s... complex. I can’t say exactly what it is or who did it, but I wouldn’t try dispelling it just yet.”

It is good advice; they don’t know if the genjutsu is a trap in waiting, an unknown technique rigged to ensnare them. They also don’t know if the members of the clan are enemies or victims. Ahead of them, the riverside camp is a ghost town and a very obvious trap. “I’m going to send some wood clones to scout ahead,” he says, folding his hands together and forming four clones, growths of wood that separate from his back into identical copies of himself. They nod at him and venture into the deserted camp. “We should probably find somewhere safe to observe.”

“Wise,” Madara says, but just as they turn to disappear into the forest, water rises from the river, vaguely humanoid in shape and obstructing their exit. They solidify into Hagoromo ninja, and Hashirama only has a second to note their vacant expressions before combined jets of a water jutsu drive them back towards the camp.

Through his clones, he knows that the ground of the camp is drenched, likely on purpose. It is exactly the last place they should be caught in. Though his wood techniques can dry the ground, to dry the area sufficiently enough to mitigate the danger would destroy the camp. Something is obviously wrong with the clan, and he doesn’t believe they should start killing them indiscriminately just yet.

Madara has no such qualms, cutting down one shinobi after another with his kama with something approaching satisfaction, possibly even glee. Hashirama frowns deeply—he knows that his friend has always approached battle with justified confidence, but this reckless enthusiasm is new.

Moreover, the clan’s attacks are _sloppy._  The Senju have faced the Hagoromo in battle a few times before, but their delayed reaction times do not match prior experience. They are slow to attack and slower to defend against his clones, who subdue them with relative ease.

Though they’ve been pushed back into the camp, they’re careful to distance themselves from the large swathes of water littering the camp. He raises a high, wooden platform to stand on above the water as he observes the battle, encasing and incapacitating ninja in wood as he sees them.

He watches Madara clear a spot with a breath of flame and is immensely relieved to see the form of Susano’o rise like blue fire before him. He knows well, better than anyone, how it deserves its reputation as the perfect defense.

From his standpoint above the battle, he realizes that he has significantly fewer assailants than Madara. They swarm around the cage of his partial Susano’o, but only a few dare to attack him on his platform, and it has nothing to do with his having the high ground.

It’s then that he hears it: an uttered _‘Suiton!’_ up and to his left, and both he and Madara look up from their respective battles. Hashirama presses his fingers together in the familiar seal—

_“Katon!”_

A burst of fire erupts from Madara’s mouth within Susano’o but it isn’t water that meets fire—it’s oil. Hashirama’s eyes widen, and so does Madara’s.

Later, he will pinpoint this moment as the moment where everything goes wrong.

But now, before the oil, now on fire, can reach them both—or him first, he is closer—he raises a wall of wood to cut off the stream. The ground shakes with the force of a small earthquake and he looks down at Susano’o. The look on Madara’s face approaches something close to devastation and he takes three steps back into a puddle of water that rises up to his heels.

Hashirama can only watch with horror as an arm, and then an upper body, rises out of the water and spears Madara through the unprotected portion of his back.

It is like watching the world fade into grey—

Stumbling off the platform—

Susano’o dousing itself and flickering out of existence—

Madara turning around and catching the ninja with the Sharingan, thrusting the kama into a neck—

_Falling—_

He doesn’t care about survivors anymore. He can’t. The markings of Sage Mode sweep over his features and he singles out every single living signature within a mile of them, impaling them with thorns of wood. Blood pools at his feet and he falls to his knees, dyeing them red.

The wooden lance has speared through his heart and the left lung at a diagonal, through the left ventricle and atrium. Madara’s fall has forced the lance to the side, further damaging his lung. If it were any normal injury, he would have left the foreign object in to prevent further blood loss, but the pumping of Madara’s rapidly failing heart and gaping wound render this measure ineffective; he breaks the spear as cleanly as he can and slides it out of the thoracic cavity.

A person can survive up to five minutes without oxygen before neurological damage sets in. Most talented medic of his generation or not, the ability to repair the brain is a skill beyond his ken.

The worst feeling in his experience as a medic is feeling the life force drain out from under his hands. Even as he cordons off the damaged section to prevent further blood loss, if the heart stops and he can’t restart it, it’s all over. The lung is secondary, but he also has to act quickly if he wants to save it. He hates knowing his limits—he can’t repair Madara’s heart fast enough, not under five minutes. Three and a half minutes, now.

The damage is far too extensive and he can’t make the cells replicate fast enough.

He’s losing his friend again, and this time it has nothing to do with their growing distance over the past year. His failures mount on his conscience and he has to admit it, accept it. It’s the rational thing to do, to give up on a lost cause.

_It’s fatal._

If it were him, it wouldn’t be! If it were him, he could have saved himself—why did it have to be _Madara?_

The green aura around his hands flickers out.

“If it were me, I could repair the damage,” he whispers, and pulls out a kunai. It’s a last-ditch effort but he has no other options. He rolls up his sleeve and scores out a small section of his upper arm, wincing as he pulls away a hard-won piece of his flesh no larger than the length of his thumb. They aren’t pluripotent as they are in his hands now, but his cells are unique—he can make them so that they are. His hands flare a deep, verdant green and he lowers the cells into the chasm of Madara’s heart.

His cells divide, spanning the damaged organ like a web, not yet more effective than a plug. Two minutes.

Now he has to graft them into the infrastructure of Madara’s body. In fifteen seconds, the cells specialize, and they become cardiovascular cells. On the surface level, the heart is whole again. But it’s a false comfort—the body could reject the cells at any moment. The problem is not whether the cells are up to the task, but rather the nature of foreign chakra that the cells produce. The only thing keeping the cells from dying immediately is the lifeline of infused chakra.

The next urgent task is to replace the sheer volume of blood lost, but thankfully, it’s a medical technique that he’s familiar with. Shinobi lose blood far too much and too often for it not to be a common, if advanced technique. It’s also urgent to remove the blood flooding his lungs so he doesn’t choke to death, among other concerns.

He has the space of a few seconds to repeat the grafting process with the damaged lung, keeping one hand over the heart and the other over the lung. Multitasking doesn’t exactly come naturally to him, but he mentally reaches out to his clones, still sweeping the area for threats.

 _If there are any survivors, question them,_ he orders, though his attention never wavers from Madara’s form. An irrational fear manifests: that if he looks away, Madara will disappear or worse, start to wither away before his eyes _. I want to know what’s going on. And remove any evidence of Wood Release. It would be too easy to pin the clan’s destruction on me and the village._

He takes a moment to breathe once he’s sure that Madara’s condition has stabilized enough for relocation. Once he’s sure that hands have stopped shaking, he gathers up the broken body in search of temporary sanctuary.

One thought refuses to leave him: the Sharingan should have seen through the oil technique. Madara should have known to let Hashirama handle it, trusted him to block it. They have never fought together so asynchronously before. Even as enemies, their fights flowed like fine choreography.

It was like they weren’t even on the same page.

 

* * *

 

His heart’s still threatening to beat its way out of his chest when he gingerly sets Madara down on the floor of the hastily-constructed hut. They’re reasonably far away from danger now and he has six wood clones patrolling the perimeter. They’re out of immediate danger, but he needs to get it together because the possibility that Madara could reject his cells and die is still _very much real._ As a medic he knows this well, but when he looks at the rapidly paling face of his closest friend, what little composure he has evaporates and all he’s left with is dry panic.

He starts channeling chakra into the wound the moment Madara’s on the ground, sterilizing what he can first before infusing medical chakra in order to replace the framework of rejected cells. It’s gory to say the least—the regeneration of his heart and lung had taken priority over the replacement of his skin, bones, and muscles, and he’d done only enough standard healing to prevent further blood loss. He tries not to focus on the fact that he’s literally watching Madara’s heart beat.

Once he’s sure that there are enough of his transplanted cells to last until the next infusion, he turns his focus to closing up the wound. It will be the work of hours—Hashirama doesn’t dare attempt to graft more of his cells into non-critical areas. He doesn’t want to increase the risk of rejection.

He winces as he watches Madara’s lung seize twice before hacking up a mouthful of blood, splattering against the panels of the crude flooring. The effort only paints another layer of glistening red around his mouth. Because he can’t turn him on his side, he briefly takes up the task of removing the blood from his throat.

It’s not the first time he’s been grateful for the size of his chakra reserves. He switches between tasks for the next six hours, constantly outputting healing chakra. It’s not something a medic should ever attempt alone, but he doesn’t trust his wood clones enough for this task.

He’s just managed to close the wound and replace a few of Madara’s ribs when hands shoot up and embed themselves in his shirt, dragging him down. He stares wide-eyed into the face of death, bone-white and blood-crusted.

“Hashirama,” Madara gasps, fists clinging to the front of his shirt. His eyes flicker open briefly to look up and—

The white, concentric rings of the Rinnegan stare back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the outline title is _'hashi you big dumb'_ which pretty much says it all


	2. Listen, so you can show me how

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that he has his attention, he doesn’t know what to do with it.

He wakes the first time to the sensation of fire, the bursting pressure of what feels like a thousand galaxies being born all at once in the space behind his eyes. The pain is unimaginable—like his eyes are disintegrating and reforming again in an unending cycle—it doesn’t even compare to the operation when Izuna’s eyes became his. They had bled for nearly a fortnight after, the blood the tears he could not bring himself to shed for his brother’s loss, for he had nothing left to give.

Compared to that, the cold, strangely vacant feeling in his chest is almost a relief.

All this and yet the pain of needing to see Hashirama’s face is still worse. So he bears it and forces his eyes open, hands and eyes grasping blindly for a figure he isn’t even sure is there. The blurry image of Hashirama’s stricken expression resolves itself into clarity for a fleeting moment, but it’s all he needs.

He lets his eyes close again and surrenders himself back into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

He comes awake the second time thrashing against a sharp pain in his chest. His heart is rebelling against him, he’s sure, by making him wish for the mercy of death with each frantic throb. Breathing too, seems impossible—the air that rasps against his trachea feels hotter than any fire jutsu he’s ever cast.

A gentle pressure settles on his brow and a wash of tranquility settles over him like a warm blanket. He goes quietly.

 

* * *

 

The final time he wakes, the pain in his eyes has dulled to a manageable throb. Everything from his neck down to his abdomen is numb and there’s a fuzzy feeling in his fingers. A sharp intake of breath reveals the sticky sensation of what could be mucus in his throat, but the violent cough that follows shows that it’s clotted blood.

“Don’t get up!” An insistent pressure on his shoulders urges him back down. He breathes out. It’s Hashirama, so he goes without a fight. It’s not like he has the strength to argue at the moment. “In fact, don’t move at all.”

Kneeling beside him, Hashirama Senju is a patchwork of bloodstains, mostly concentrated around his hands and forearms. He’s divested himself of all of his armor, stripped down to the simple black shirt and pants of his usual battle uniform. His hands glow green with medical chakra, poised over his chest. Scattered around him are piles of bloodied rags and medical implements he’s never seen before.

The mental fog that accompanies wakefulness is especially thick today; he looks up into the face of his oldest friend and is immediately confused. It isn’t often that Hashirama ever shows signs of being scared, but the tense line of his mouth and the barely-there shadows around his eyes suggest that he’s unsettled.

He looks hunted.

“Don’t talk,” Hashirama orders, serious for once. Madara suppresses a cringe; there’s a reprimand in the low tone of his voice and the memories come flooding back as reality reasserts itself. “At least, not for ten minutes or so. I need to finish repairing your bronchus so that you can at least talk. I didn’t expect you to wake up so soon. Just listen. I’ll fill you in on your condition.”

He nods, too exhausted to do anything more than let his restless eyes settle on the hands hovering over his chest. His mistake had nearly cost him his life and it was clear that Hashirama had saved him, but—how? He’d felt the press, the burn and the cold slide of the spearhead into his flesh, he’d known immediately that he was all but a dead man. ‘ _Embarrassment’_ doesn’t cover the extent of his feelings towards himself and ‘ _disappointment’_ is a word he’s used far too frequently in recent days to feel anything close to novel anymore.

 _‘Hatred’_ is far more accurate.

“You walked back into the water and one of them got you with a spear,” Hashirama tells him. It’s unnecessary. He remembers it with picture-perfect clarity, a curse of the Sharingan. There’s no accusation in Hashirama’s words, but the simple reminder of his mistake makes his teeth grit together. “It punctured through the lower half of your heart and parts of your left lung. A few of your ribs were shattered.”

He should definitely have died. No human being could have survived a wound like that. “Then, how—”

The look on Hashirama’s face, the look he shoots him now—he hasn’t seen anything like it since he stopped Tobirama from killing him, but the physical pressure associated with the leak of killing intent is absent. _“Don’t talk.”_

He shuts his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. Hashirama sighs, the anger dissipating from his posture until all that remains is exhaustion. “You were dying. There was no way to save you with regular techniques.” His gaze drops down to Madara’s chest, to his wound. It’s then that he belatedly realizes that his shirt has been cut through to reveal his left shoulder and chest. Hashirama moves his hands away, giving Madara his first real look at what should have been a fatal wound. “I had to graft my own cells into your heart and lungs to save you.”

The scar is no larger than the size of a closed fist, faint white scarring the only evidence of his error. He can’t seem to tear his eyes away. As if staring at it hard enough will reveal his traitorous heart, somehow tainted and beating to a tune of Hashirama’s choice.

“There is something else,” Hashirama says slowly and he looks uncharacteristically reluctant. It puts Madara on edge. He replaces his hands over the wound, continuing his work. Madara lets him. Why does he even bother? “Your dōjutsu has changed. It—”

Madara jerks up with a start, pushing against Hashirama’s hands despite his standing orders _not_ to move. “My eyes?”

He can’t help his reaction. His eyes are his most precious asset both as a ninja and as a matter of pride. It marks him as an Uchiha, evidence of his heritage and his place in the world, a solid reminder that he clings to nowadays in the face of his clan’s increasingly frigid attitude towards him.

More importantly, it is Izuna’s last gift.

Hashirama doesn’t lecture him for speaking now, but he does guide him gently back to the floor. He must have finished his temporary measures. “I’ve only heard of it in legends, but are you familiar with the story of the Sage of Six Paths?”

He doesn’t know anyone who isn’t. To the Uchiha, the Sage is a part of history, more concrete than any legend. They have his tablet, his story. “Yes,” he says, keeping it simple in case the healing doesn’t hold.

“The Rinnegan,” Hashirama says, watching his reaction closely. His hands hover around him and they look ready to put him back under should he react badly. “The first time you woke up, I saw it. The coloring, the ripple pattern. It matches the stories exactly.”

Three thoughts surge through his head at once:

  1. He’s lying.
  2. Can he still use the Sharingan?
  3. _He may be able to defeat Hashirama._



The last thought simultaneously thrills and disgusts him. He has to close his eyes to shut out the image of Hashirama’s concern; if only it could shut out the knowledge that he even did.

Being able to beat Hashirama has both always and never mattered. Never mattered because he’d always seen it as an impossible feat. Always mattered because it used to be a question borne out of survival, but now it’s a question borne out of the need for control. He has spent the majority of his life accumulating the strength necessary to protect his brother and his clan.

Failing both, he turned his efforts to trying to protect his clan by protecting the village, the only thing he felt he could do. There were too many external threats that Hashirama overlooked— _ignored_ —in favor of village building. Hashirama’s inevitable appointment as Hokage drew ever closer and the threat of Senju oppression of the Uchiha weighed heavily on his mind—he knew Hashirama would never outright condone such a thing, but many things seemed to be out of his hands.

And his own.

Madara would never be Hokage, Tobirama told him as much. In truth, he personally cared very little for the position. The title of Hokage, to him, was only a means to an end, a method of controlling the destiny of the clan and the direction of the village. Tobirama would follow after Hashirama and the clan would begin its slow descent into destruction and obscurity.

Izuna would never have wanted this. He needs to fulfill his last wish. Protect the clan.

_(How can I when they won’t let me?)_

What other purpose does he have? Somewhere along the way, he’d lost trust in everyone but himself. He sees enemies everywhere. Even in Hashirama, who has gone too far and blinded himself with his idealism.

Today’s fight showed that he couldn’t even trust himself.

His second attempt at closing himself off from Hashirama had ended in miserable failure. It had gone well for the better part of the year. He had gradually stopped visiting him in the office and ceased their meetings in the village. And Hashirama had gotten swept up in village administration, forgetting about his existence entirely. It had hurt to realize that their friendship had mattered so little to Hashirama in the end, but it had made the task easier.

But when he showed up to tackle him outside of the village gates, after almost six months of little to no contact...

All of his progress, his efforts to harden his resolve against the seemingly innocuous, truthfully insidious kindness of his friend, shattered the moment he saw that attack careening towards Hashirama’s head.

He couldn’t trust anyone. He couldn’t even trust Hashirama to defend himself. And his foolish, knee-jerk, _emotional_ reaction had nearly killed him in the end just because he couldn’t trust himself to stop caring for Hashirama. And then he’d gone ahead and saved his life, practically engraving his name into his being. He didn’t even ask first. Did he even need to?

Whatever Hashirama may feel for him, he’s almost certain that what he feels for him is at least a thousand times more intense.

They’re never equal, even now. And what is the point of having so much power if he can’t do anything right, if he can’t even trust his own motivations?

_(I don’t know what to do.)_

He doesn’t think he’ll ever be rid of him. No matter how much strength he has, no matter how much distance he puts between them, not even if he leaves the village permanently. The writing was already on the wall. The fact that Hashirama is quite literally a part of his heart now is just a poorly-made cosmic joke for a fact he’s long known to be true.

He’s not sure that he even wants to, not when it feels like Hashirama is the only thing he has left.

 

* * *

 

Madara’s head rolls to the side, eyes shut tight against an invisible threat. Things were changing too fast, too many problems were presenting themselves at once. He worries that he’s watching Madara in the beginning of a breakdown.

There’s a lot to unpack for himself too, but he’s not the one dealing with a chest wound and the unexpected development of the Rinnegan.

He tries hard to find something to say, but everything he comes up with relates to the manifestation of the Rinnegan, his injuries, or the Hagoromo incident. None of them are particularly light topics. He hasn’t connected with Madara in so long, he doesn’t know what other topics to talk about and no jokes conveniently spring to mind. But before he can even try, Madara speaks. “Give me a mirror.”

“You shouldn’t use your chakra as injured as you are now,” he chides, making his disapproval known. But it is a relief to know that Madara is strong enough to bear the weight of this new development, even if he may be repressing the shock. “I’ve been infusing chakra to help the transplanted cells adjust to their new environment, but an imbalance or flare of your own chakra could disturb the delicate equilibrium that we’ve established.”

“I don’t care,” Madara bites out, inhaling sharply and pushing himself up on his elbows and into a sitting position. His arms shake with the effort. “I need to see it for myself.”

There’s no arguing with Madara when he’s like this. He gets to his feet to go and find the Scroll of Seals in the far corner of the room. “Fine, but give me some advance notice when you activate it so that I can monitor your vitals.”

He feels Madara’s eyes on him as he slides open the scroll. “I don’t have a mirror on me, but I can give you some water to look at your reflection in.” He places his hand on the seal containing necessities and in a few short moments, he has a canteen and a porcelain bowl filled with water in his hands. “You should be drinking water to rehydrate yourself after all that fluid loss, anyway.”

He walks back over and kneels down again, handing the bowl to Madara. He circles around to his back, and the minute flinch that Madara gives when he does so spurs a momentary pang of sorrow. He positions his hands over the freshly-closed wound, extending his senses out, careful not to touch. “Just let me know when.”

He sees over a pale shoulder the reflection of Madara’s face in the water. “I’m going to start with the basic Sharingan,” Madara says, squinting at his reflection, grimly determined. “Going up to the Rinnegan, if I can manage to activate it. You can start now.”

His vitals were fine if a little weaker than normal and his cellular count was more than fine. He’d made sure of that before they started this exercise. Perhaps subconsciously he’d known that Madara would demand it.

The proportion of his chakra to Madara’s native chakra in his body was roughly 1:4, which would serve as his baseline. In the water, he sees the three red tomoe bloom in Madara’s left eye. With it came very little change in chakra output. Madara’s shoulders slump with relief at the sight—he must have been worried about losing the clan dōjutsu.

A sudden shift has him pushing more of his own chakra into Madara’s back as the rush of chakra subsumes his own, and he sees the tomoe stretch to connect into Madara’s unique version of the Mangekyō. It’s something he hasn’t seen in a very long time; Madara usually jumps from the basic to the Eternal Mangekyō.

Under his hands he sees Madara’s ribcage expand and contract as he breathes more deeply. His heart rate has picked up, but he’s not overexerting himself just yet. Hashirama has the feeling that his exertion is more psychological in nature. Madara closes his eyes, and when he opens them again the familiar spokes of the Eternal Mangekyō extend out from the tails of the tomoe to the limits of his iris.

“You okay?” he blurts, because okay, he has to admit that he’s a little nervous. The memory of the first time he’d seen the active Rinnegan still brings chills to his spine. Underneath all the blood, desperation and the foreign dōjutsu, he’d caught himself thinking that he’d saved the wrong person—it had all felt so wrong.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Madara tells him. It’s not a no, but neither is it a yes.

From the pupil, the circles of the Rinnegan emanate out like the ripples in a pond, replacing red with white, and he is quick to put in a significant amount of chakra into Madara to compensate—the Rinnegan appeared to, while consuming very little chakra to activate and maintain overall, use a fair bit of his own type of chakra as fuel.

“It _is_ the Rinnegan,” Madara utters, almost too lowly to be heard. He turns to Hashirama, giving him the first proper view of the legendary dōjutsu. It makes him feel a little dizzy staring at all those rings, even knowing that it has nothing to do with genjutsu. “The same pattern as on the tablet.”

The tablet is likely some Uchiha-specific record of history relating to the Sage. He can’t deny his curiosity, but he decides not to inquire out of a respect for clan secrets, at least until the need presented itself. As a clan leader himself, he knows very well the value of secrets.

Then, curiously, Madara drops his gaze down to his own chest and blanches.

Hashirama can’t help the smirk that slides onto his face. “Figured out the extent of the damage, huh?”

“I’m a mess!” Madara squawks and the Rinnegan deactivates, circles retreating back into black. Hashirama stands up and bends down at the waist, peering sideways at Madara’s outraged expression. “You’re a master of understatement, not to mention what the _hell_ is going on with my chakra flows. It’s a wonder I was even able to activate anything. Fix me!”

“Limit one miracle a day.” He doesn’t think he has it in him for another nor the emotional strength. A thought occurs to him: Madara has his cells now, and consequently, a portion of his chakra. “Do you think you can use Wood Release?”

“Me? _Mokuton?”_ At least ten different emotions flash through Madara’s face in the span of a few seconds before settling on neutrality. Madara turns to face him fully with sudden gravitas. “Do you want me to try?”

“What do you mean?” Hashirama asks curiously, not quite understanding his hesitation. “If you want my medical recommendation, I would rather you lie down and do nothing for at least two months.”

“No, not that.” Madara drops his gaze down to his lap. By the silence that follows, he seems to be having trouble choosing his words. “I realize that you may have been... forced to transplant your cells to save my life, but you couldn’t have expected these other side-effects. The Rinnegan is one thing, but _mokuton_ is—it’s your personal style.”

Ah, yes. Shinobi were proprietary of their bloodline limits. Why wouldn’t they, when some of them were the only reason for their continued existence? They were extremely powerful and he doubts that in his position, Madara would be just as lenient if _he’d_ suddenly gained the Sharingan.

“Why would I mind? I would love to share more techniques with _mokuton_ users!”

Madara grumbles and he thinks it’s something unkind. “Do you always happily give away the advantage to everyone you meet?”

“You would be the first and hopefully, the only one.” It isn’t the propagation of _mokuton_ itself that worries him; he would love for more people to use its techniques and would hate for it to be a lost art. But it was powerful, and it built upon a strong connection to life itself. Combined with a large chakra reserve and used with great skill, it could be a truly monstrous weapon to misuse. Sage techniques only enhanced its potency. “But for the record, it’s a power I give to you freely. I only regret that it took nearly dying for it to happen.” But he is fine with this because it is _Madara._ “I can’t think of a better person to entrust _mokuton_ with.”

“Oh.” It’s been some time since he’s properly embarrassed his friend. He’s heartened to see Madara’s cheeks color red; it means that he has enough blood to do so.

In the blink of an eye, Madara’s formed the seal of the snake and Hashirama realizes that he’s suddenly very close to the ceiling and the world is tilting dangerously sideways. He isn’t quick enough to react and he tips over, rolling once before catching himself on his hands and knees.

He stares up at the column of wood standing proudly in the place where he’d once stood. “Hey, what gives?”

“Revenge for tripping me twice yesterday.”

“How did you even manage to learn to do that so quickly?” he complains, watching Madara silently revel in his version of poetic justice. More like petty revenge. “I was eleven when I first did something with Wood Release, and I wasn’t nearly as good...”

Madara sighs, tapping at the space next to his eyes. “Sharingan, remember? I’ve seen you do countless variations of _mokuton._ I could probably replicate them all.”

Well, that’s not concerning at all. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that sounds a lot like Tobirama tells him that he’s probably gone and done something unwise. “Well, maybe save yourself with it next time, I’m so tired.”

Madara’s eyes widen. “Exactly how long have you been awake? Sleep then, you fool!”

“I can’t! You’re still in danger of dying,” he sniffs, rearranging himself again to sit beside Madara. It’s not exactly true and he could technically set up a clone to monitor Madara, but it just doesn’t feel right. The thought of not being able to see Madara for more than a few moments makes him twitchy—this _may_ be a developing problem. But they’d fought for almost twenty-four hours straight once, that battle before their truce, so he knows he’s working within his limits.

“Ah,” he sighs, crossing his arms and affecting the air of a put-upon storyteller. “I remember those traumatic first moments when I stared into that hole in your chest, I could see your organs and through to the ground, you know. And all that blood just _pouring_ out of your back, do you know how hard it was trying to pick those rib fragments out—”

Madara’s face adopts a lovely shade of green and he clamps his hands over his ears, screwing his eyes shut with exaggerated distaste. “Ugh, would you shut up? Are medic-nin supposed to make their patients feel _worse?”_

Hashirama laughs, and if it teeters just on the edge of hysteria, Madara doesn’t comment on it. For the first time in nearly twelve hours he feels like everything might turn just turn out okay. It doesn’t really occur to him until later that he may just have handed Madara the keys to his own destruction.

There are still a lot of questions left to be answered, but at the moment, all he feels is a thorough, full-bodied relief at seeing his friend alive and well.

 

* * *

 

“I think it’s about time to return to the village,” Hashirama says, looking up and out through the windows of the shack. It’s late evening now but it was to their advantage to travel by night, especially with an injured party. “You’re well enough to travel, but...”

“But what?” For someone lying on the floor without so much as a futon or even a blanket, Madara seems to have made himself awfully comfortable down there. He wonders if he’s going to have trouble moving him, or if he even has intentions of returning. “And why won’t you listen to me and just _take a nap?_  Seriously, how long have you been awake?”

“But I don’t want you overworking your heart, so I’m going to carry you.”

Madara does a fine impression of a plank of wood judging by the way he stiffens up in place on the floor. Hashirama doesn’t see what the big deal is, just Madara and his stupid sense of Uchiha pride getting in the way. “You’ve got another thing coming if you think I’m going to let you—I feel fine!”

“Oh? Would you ‘feel fine’ without the anesthesia jutsu?” Hashirama says, bringing a hand up and wiggling his fingers ominously. Madara’s jaw drops at the implication, as if he thought that Hashirama was beyond threats. Bah, he should see the things he could make Tobirama do. “I’m a healer, but...”

“Don’t you medic-nin have some sort of code you follow? Maybe  _‘do no harm?’”_ Madara suggests, squinting up at Hashirama. “Is this really necessary, or are you lying to me for some stupid—”

“Well, I’m glad that’s settled!” He claps his hands together resolutely. End of argument. “I’m going to carry you back and you’re going to like it.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Madara exclaims, pointing an accusing finger at him before throwing the same arm over his eyes, frustrated. But it’s quickly removed. “Wait, where are my weapons?”

“Oh, you mean _these_ weapons?” Hashirama says brightly, going to pick up the war fan and kama in a darkened corner of the shack. At the sight of them, Madara lets out a sigh of relief. But then Hashirama rolls out the Scroll of Seals to an empty storage seal and drops the weapons on it, clattering loudly against the floor. He hears Madara make several incoherent sounds as he touches the edge of the seal and the weapons disappear in a puff of smoke. “Whoops. Looks like I’ve just misplaced them. You’ll have to get them back later.”

“Those are priceless heirlooms,” Madara says darkly as Hashirama seals away the other supplies and secures the Scroll back onto his waist. “If I get them back in less-than-perfect condition...”

“I’ll treat you to dinner when we get back if that happens,” Hashirama says and kneels down by Madara’s prone form. “Now are you going to come quietly or will I have to use the _gentle hand?”_

“This is so embarrassing,” Madara mumbles, looking like he wants to burn a hole in the ceiling with his glare. Knowing him, he probably could. He turns away from Hashirama before giving his answer, fringe hiding his expression. “Fine, but let me walk once we’re back at the village.”

Hashirama takes a step forward and is sure to gently position his arms around Madara’s shoulders and under his knees, careful not to jostle the still-tender chest area. If Madara hadn’t seen the extent of the damage himself, he thinks that he might have protested more strongly. Despite what Madara might think, he’s not trying to embarrass him—they are still on the border of enemy territory and the quickest way back passes through the territory of several yet unaffiliated clans. Though he’s sure that his friend can move at a walking pace, they can’t afford to dawdle too long in one space so far away from the village.

Still, the way Madara’s head lolls against his chest is kind of endearing. He’s glad to know that he still manages to hold some measure of trust even after everything that’s happened.

They depart shortly and he entrusts one of his remaining wood clones with the task of dismantling the shack.

He sighs. As for the investigation into the Hagoromo attack...

He’d been too thorough in his execution of the clan. None had survived their encounter and he had no way of trying to read their memories after death. If such a jutsu existed, it would likely be within the purview of the mind specialists of the Yamanaka, their new allies. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think that they might have a way to get intel from their deceased enemies, a useful skill in war. But he was reluctant to get them involved. Such conflict threatened the image of stability of the village, and they were still very new allies.

These rumors of clan antagonism that Madara has been acting on—he doesn’t doubt that they exist. But he has a feeling that, at least judging by the targeted attack, someone was purposefully using them to try and drive a wedge between Madara and the village. That the more he went out and fought, the more they would agitate him and the more they would justify his crusade.

If he asked Madara, would he answer? He wonders if he even suspects anything or if he even cared that the clan could have been a cog in some larger plot.

It could be nothing, after all. Just another clan using another to wage war. It wasn’t as if the Yamanaka held the monopoly on mind jutsu. Perhaps Hashirama had misjudged the capabilities of the clan. That, or someone was trying to get revenge against Madara for the destruction of so many clans.

Or perhaps Hashirama is in the wrong. There is at least one thing that he knows he is wrong for.

“I have to apologize.” Because if there’s one thing he owes Madara, it’s this. For treating him as invisible for so long and for being so willfully blind to his point of view, right or wrong. “I think I see your point.”

Madara lifts his head from his chest, blinking at him drowsily; he must have dozed off. “What for?”

“Those Hagoromo nin clearly wanted you dead for one reason or another. And you’re a ninja of Konohagakure. A threat against you is a threat against the village, so I’m sorry for not noticing earlier.” His friend doesn’t seem to know what to do with this admission, openly gaping at him. “One thing though: maybe we can compare notes next time? I’m interested in where you heard about these threats.”

Madara scoffs. “Just listen to the traders talk. They go through many different parts of the Land of Fire.”

“How do you know if the rumors are true? You don’t think that a clan might want revenge against you for what you’ve been doing?” he asks curiously. It would have been easy to bribe the common folk to pass false information on.

“If they attack on sight, how can they be false? Their fault for not allying with us,” Madara says, yawning and replacing his head back against his chest. How he can make himself so comfortable as they flew through the trees is a wonder in and of itself. And hadn’t he been the one so loudly protesting being carried not a half-an-hour ago? “But if it makes you feel better, I suppose I could discuss what I hear with you.”

 _Attack on sight._ Hashirama sighs. He doesn’t think that he might have accidentally cultivated a terrifying reputation for himself? A self-fulfilling prophecy?

That is the core of their ideological differences, he thinks. How is he supposed to bridge the gap, convince him of the power of diplomacy over swords in a way that doesn’t involve a fight? Madara respected power, but doing so through such a method would be antithetical to the point he was trying to make. Besides, all a fight would prove was who was physically stronger, not the rightness of their opinions.

It is hard to deny the effect of the village’s growing strength on the world. The system was popping up in other nations; they felt the need to cooperate in order to defend against the perceived threat of the Leaf. He was happy for the increased cooperation, but what would happen if one village declared war against another? It could hardly be solved by something as simple as a political marriage as they did between clans, that is, if his hope that clan boundaries would dissolve in the new system took hold.

Were peace and power mutually exclusive, or were they intertwined?

There’s a tap on his collarbone.

“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve just swallowed something bad.”

Talking to Madara now was like walking on thin ice, he reminds himself. He has to pick and choose his words carefully, lest he sway Madara’s opinion too far one way or the other. And he can’t let on his insecurities, lest Madara try and sway _him._

And he’s afraid that he already has.

He isn’t ready for this talk, not yet.

“I said I’d drag you back to the village, and here I am, doing just that.” _I win._

“You also said that you’d talk to the Hagoromo, but we both know how well that turned out.” _As if._

And for that cheeky remark, Hashirama makes it a point to drop twenty feet from the branches in spite of the very rational need to keep Madara from having a heart attack. Madara’s resulting yell-screech-shout and the way his arm tightens around his neck—almost as if he wants to strangle him, _hah_ —is immensely satisfying. Serves him right for letting his guard down and getting so comfortable.

This definitely isn’t a problem that’s going to be solved in one day. He needs to talk to Tobirama.

 

* * *

 

The village is a welcome sight. It always is. Normally because it’s the realization of their dream, but now it’s mostly because he’s running on fumes. But he’s not going to let Madara in on that.

It’s nearly midnight by the time they reach the gates and he looks down to see his friend breathing softly in sleep, arms folded across his stomach. He lets out a sigh, envious.

They haven’t yet established a watch routine for the gates of the village. The founding clans and their allies have moved in, but the boundaries aren’t yet so well-established that they have set up a common defense outside guarding the clan settlements. A rotation was something he’d planned to negotiate and set up in the coming month, but for now it worked to their advantage; there was no one to see them slip past the great gates and into the village.

As he walks the darkened streets of the market in slumber, he looks in between two opposing directions. Because of course, even when they came together and established a village, the Senju and Uchiha had to settle as far apart as possible in the village. Like oil and water, they were.

So, to his house in the Senju settlement or to the Uchiha compound?

He needs to keep an eye on Madara’s condition, so wherever they go, they have to go together. He won’t have it any other way.

He laughs nervously to himself—maybe that developing problem was already a problem?

Taking Madara to the Senju settlement feels a bit like kidnapping, he thinks, casting a longing glance at his home in the distance. He misses it, his clan and Tobirama, but he knows that he won’t be missing his rants. Of which there would be much of in light of what he’s done and even if he does need to speak with his brother soon.

As if making his decision for him, his feet turn in the direction of the Uchiha compound, off to the left of the main road. At least in the Uchiha complex, Madara might feel more at home. If a bit like being under house arrest for his recovery.

“We’re—we’re here?” Madara mumbles, because being such a skilled chakra sensor can apparently translate even in unconsciousness. “Where are we going?” Then he seems to come fully awake, as if sensing the multiple, familiar signatures of his clansmen. He hadn’t thought this far—Madara probably didn’t want to be seen being carried into the compound by his clansmen. “We’re going to the Uchiha compound? Let me down!”

Too late. There are two Uchiha guardsmen gaping at them from the gates of the Uchiha complex. Behind them, a couple of clan members spectate with similarly baffled looks.

“Oops,” he says. Madara very nearly topples out of his arms.

“Madara-sama, Senju-sama,” one of the guards greets, once he’s picked his jaw up off the floor. “Welcome back.”

“It’s good to be back, thank you,” Hashirama waves cheerfully, because it looks like Madara certainly isn’t going to say anything, standing there staring between the guards and Hashirama and generally looking very lost. “Forgive us for the late hour of our arrival. Madara and I were out on a diplomatic mission. He took a very serious injury in the course of saving my life, so if you will excuse us...”

The guards straighten and startle into action. “Of course! Do you need assistance?”

“No, but thank you for the kind offer,” Hashirama says, nudging Madara along with a discreet hand. Madara shoots him a glance—one that Hashirama can’t read at all—and takes the lead, steering them in the direction of the clan head’s house at the back of the compound. Along the way, a few lingering Uchiha take the time to bow respectfully at their passing.

Those rumors about the rift between Madara and his clan—he’d completely forgotten about them. The way Madara had gone speechless in front of his clan members told him that there was at least some basis to the rumors.

The Uchiha clan head’s house is not something of Hashirama’s creation, not like a majority of the other buildings in Konohagakure. He’d simply contributed the resources for its construction. The Uchiha affected an image of self-sufficiency and so they’d taken it upon themselves to build a large part of their own clan’s infrastructure. This naturally resulted in a style that separated their buildings from the rest of the buildings in the village. Hashirama sometimes wishes he had the imagination to design more distinct buildings, but he’s a shinobi first, village architect second.

The clan head’s house is humbly sized but decoratively grand in a practical way. The walls were paneled white in the style of the era, seen in feudal lord homes, with actual stone shingles. By contrast, Hashirama’s own house was—well, the best he could do with a lot of wood. There are no locks on the sliding doors. Coming from a nomadic lifestyle, surrounded by people you could trust with your life, there was very little need for it at this stage. Madara reaches for the door and Hashirama follows him inside.

“Why did you say that?” Madara demands as soon as the door slides shut behind them. “Why did you tell them that I saved your life? I didn’t, instead I—”

“Didn’t you?” Hashirama counters, tilting his head and raising a finger to his chin. As curious as he is about Madara’s misstep, he doesn’t believe he will get a straight answer at this time. It doesn’t mean he won’t try. “At least, you intended to. That’s enough for me.”

“Do not credit me for something I don’t deserve,” Madara growls, and as if he can’t bear looking at Hashirama anymore, he swivels around on his heel and stalks further down the dim hallways of the house. “Go home, Hashirama, I’ll be fine now.”

“You deserve credit for caring for my wellbeing,” he says instead, doggedly refusing to drop the topic and following after his friend. They pass through the sitting room and continue down the hallway. “I really do appreciate it.”

Madara gifts him with stoic silence as he stops in front of a door that must be his room. “Are you planning on staying?”

“Yes, if you’ll have me.” Though he phrases it to be polite, he thinks his friend can see through his intentions. He’s really not going anywhere, not when his friend needs him, both in the medical sense and the personal sense. “That is, I really have to stick around to watch your health. There’s still a lot left to fix, and I still have to keep up those chakra infusions to help your new cells adjust.”

“I know,” Madara whispers, giving up the fight and sliding open the door to the master bedroom. He doesn’t argue again when Hashirama follows after.

Sermons will not win his friend over to his point of view; he will have to prove it through his actions, through example. _That_ was what their truce had been based on, not the fact that he’d beaten Madara in their fight, but his willingness for self-sacrifice for his ideals, if what he’d said that day about seeing his guts was anything to go by.

With that, Hashirama steels his resolve. He will use their time together to _show_ Madara that the village is worth his protection, that peace is worth fighting for, that it is possible through cooperation. That their dream still lives. Under his watch, he will be able to keep Madara from leaving and fighting alone again. And if it carried the side-benefit of reconnecting with his friend and understanding his point of view, well, that was just his to appreciate.

 

* * *

 

Hashirama has dragged out a spare futon from a closet he wasn’t even aware existed. Though Madara is sure that he’s dead tired from everything that’s happened; he’d even had the energy to do a checkup before passing out. He doesn’t snore, thankfully—rarely any shinobi worth their salt do, for fear of discovery.

Their futons are pushed close together at Hashirama’s insistence; he’d mentioned something about sleepovers, that he and his brothers had done this as children, and that he’d never had one with Madara as kids and that was just a shame, wasn’t it?

Madara turns his gaze from his friend to the window and the moon hanging high in the firmament of the stars.

Back in the village with his clan. He almost wishes that Hashirama had taken him to the Senju settlement. For when he walks the streets of the compound, all he can think is,  _‘Izuna could be walking here with me.’_

He knows that they are wondering what he’s doing with Hashirama after all those months in clan meetings expressing his concerns about the Senju. He saw it in their eyes on their brief walk together. It must seem strange, to suddenly show such closeness with the ‘enemy.’

But _was_ Hashirama the enemy? His hand drifts to his chest, as if possessing a mind of its own, stopping above his heart. Hashirama’s efforts were the only reason he lives now, so it was proof that he at least cared about Madara’s continued existence. But did he save him because it was simply within his abilities? No, he thinks, never before has Hashirama ever performed a transplant for anyone but himself. He couldn’t have known.

His hand curls into a fist. For such a severe injury, and for him to be able to _treat it—_

If he’d asked Hashirama to save his brother that day, he might not have died. If he’d accepted the truce, Izuna could be in this house too, walking amongst the living, walking with him.

He wishes he hadn’t realized the full extent of Hashirama’s abilities. He almost wishes that he’d died ignorant. Because knowing that he’d killed his brother just out of bullheaded stubbornness is almost too much to bear.

Too many of his thoughts revolve around Hashirama, he thinks. The man doesn’t know it, but he carries a great deal of influence on Madara’s actions, and he _hates it._ It’s a bitter, ungrateful thought to have towards his untimely savior, but even if it’s undeserved, it doesn’t make it any less true. Even now, he is constantly wondering about his place in Hashirama’s life, how he fits into his plans for the village.

In some ways he’s always felt inferior to Hashirama’s talents. Stifled, even. As a leader, as a fighter, as a visionary. But the _mokuton_ and the Rinnegan—with these new powers, he may be able to finally rid himself of Hashirama’s influence, carve his own path out from under his thumb. Hashirama may not be able to stop him.

Stop him from doing what? He doesn’t know yet. And his sudden apology—if Hashirama thought that one simple ‘sorry’ was enough to bridge the gap of months, he was sorely mistaken. But...

_(“I think I see your point.”)_

Was that an indication that he was open to Madara’s opinions? He doesn’t know.

Madara just wants to know what it feels like to be  _sure_ again.

There is one thing he does know: with the Rinnegan, he may be able to read the story of the Sage in full. He resolves to visit the tablet at the earliest available opportunity.

But for now, he lets his gaze drop from the moon. His oldest friend slumbers under its stolen light, unaware. Under his fingertips, his heart continues to beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen i love hashiboob as much as the next person but _HAHA_ i am so not a skilled enough writer to pull that off holy shit


	3. Remember why we started

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want so badly to know how you see the colors of the world.

The atmosphere in the Uchiha compound is strange. And it’s not because of his presence.

Though he sets a brisk pace down the compound streets, the fractured whispers don’t escape his senses, trained for war and now apparently tuned for gossip.

_Madara-sama came in late last night—_

_He was injured saving Senju-sama’s life, they say—_

_I wonder what he’s been doing? With the Senju, no less—_

_Senju-sama carried him in, I heard it was funny—_

He’s going to _kill_ his brother.

His brother’s chakra signature indicates that he’s in the clan head’s house. He closes the distance to the entrance and raises an arm to knock on the wooden paneling of the door. Just because he’s able to march in doesn’t mean that he lacks a sense of propriety. He does his best to maintain a professional air, aware of the inquiring eyes on his back.

No response. His jaw clenches.

And then he doesn’t care anymore because it’s been almost two days without so much as a word and he _dare_ ignore him now?

 _“Brother!”_ His shout startles a few Uchiha behind him and the banging of his fists on wood gathers a small crowd. “Open this door right now!”

There’s some distant noise from inside that sounds like speech followed by the sound of footsteps. That would be Hashirama’s signature approaching now. Instead of stepping back from the doorstep, Tobirama leans forward.

The door slides open, revealing Hashirama’s disheveled form. He hasn’t changed out of the black of his uniform and the state of his hair is beyond redemption. He steps out onto the porch and closes the door behind him. “Morning, Tobi—”

His hand lashes out and snags Hashirama’s shirtfront as he activates his developmental Flying Raijin. The familiar squeeze of being pushed into the void and the following expansion of leaving it is something he’s been working to eliminate, but he’s pleased to note that the effect has been minimized with this iteration. Instantaneously, they’ve moved from the Uchiha compound to the space in front of his desk in their house in the Senju settlement.

“Oh,” Hashirama says with obvious admiration as Tobirama releases his hold. “You’ve improved the Flying Raijin!”

So he has noticed the difference. “Yes, I switched up a few of the scripts in the seal to decrease disorientation and now it goes further by—” He stops himself, bringing a palm to his forehead. Hashirama is far too good at changing the subject. “I have, but that’s not the point! Where were you? Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?”

The abashed expression that’s followed his brother from childhood surfaces now. As usual, it’s both comforting and infuriating to see. Hashirama goes to pull out the desk chair and slumps down in it. “There wasn’t any time, I had to catch him before he left.”

“And?” he prods, foot tapping impatiently.

“And... you were right,” Hashirama admits at last. That alone seems to have taken all the energy out of him to say. Defeat and reluctant acceptance cling like dead weight on his shoulders. “He _has_ been going out and fighting other clans.”

Validation has never brought him joy nor satisfaction, not when it comes to Madara Uchiha. Primarily because none of his predictions about him are ever good and secondarily because it cuts his brother deeply. He exhales, moving to lean back against his desk.

His brother has many blind spots, but none as large as Madara. He’s painfully aware of their childhood friendship and of the bond that they share. It’s not something easy to put into words, if at all possible. And if it were, it wouldn’t be his place to say. Hashirama has the unfortunate tendency to think the best of people. In Madara’s case, the effect is magnified tenfold to the point that short of levelling the village, _Madara can do no wrong._

Hashirama’s refusal to acknowledge the evidence plain before him has always irked him, but never so much as now. Hashirama has never seen the Uchiha clan as he has: objectively, like any other clan, as allies or as enemies. His brother looks at the Uchiha and sees _Madara_. Even when their clans were at war, Madara’s cold blade desperately seeking the warmth of his brother’s blood, in his eyes they have never been enemies.

Tobirama knows it hurts him now to realize that Madara is not as he seems. And that he of all people, missed it.

“I went with the intention to bring him back to the village, but you know him,” Hashirama continues, laughing weakly and running a hand through sleep-gnarled hair. “He said that the Hagoromo wanted a trade deal, but when we got there, we were ambushed.” His brother looks up at him with tired, slightly wary eyes. “You’re not going to like the next part.”

Tobirama’s eyes narrow. “Try me.”

“I know it seems impossible, but he made a mistake.” Tobirama recognizes the dark cast that shadows Hashirama’s expression. The memory must be traumatic—he only ever looks like that when he witnesses someone dead or dying. With the next sentence, he’s proven correct. “The enemy nin speared him through the heart and a portion of his lungs. There was no way I was going to be able to save him in the time I had. The only thing I could think to do at the time was to transplant my own cells.”

The creeping sensation of dread slithers up his spine. The implications of what Hashirama has done boggles his mind; shinobi genetics are powerful and Hashirama has a _bloodline limit._ “And it worked?”

“Well, he’s not dead yet,” Hashirama says wryly, a shade of disapproval in the downward tilt of his lips. Tobirama scoffs internally. As if he actively wishes for Madara’s death. He doesn’t, but he does nothing to disabuse him of the notion. “Actually, it’s surprising how well the cells have taken. I expected more of a reaction, but it’s been surprisingly easy. It might explain why...”

He waits for an explanation but Hashirama maintains his silence, resolutely staring down at his hands folded on the desk. “What aren’t you telling me?”

The words come out in a rush: “Shortly after he stabilized, he activated the Rinnegan.”

“The—” Tobirama’s train of thought stalls and grinds to a halt. “The Rinnegan? The same Rinnegan that the Sage of Six Paths had?”

There are very few credible accounts of the Sage, at least in written text. Histories were of little use to shinobi at war, for what good was an archivist in the act of saving and destroying lives? The most likely stories remain apocryphal. Of those, all shinobi children are told his tale in the form of bedtime stories. The particulars are lost, but what they all have in common emphasize the power the Sage held, power enough to end the biggest war the world has ever seen and seal the Ten-Tailed beast within himself. The capabilities of the Rinnegan itself aren’t clear to him, but it doesn’t take a genius to make the connection between godlike power, Madara and _impending doom._

Hashirama looks as flustered as Tobirama won’t let himself be, biting his lower lip. “I know! But I saw it myself, I swear!”

“You’re joking.” But the light of humor is absent from his brother’s eyes. “You’re serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Brother, that is literally the _worst_ thing you could have done.”

“What, saving my friend?” Hashirama says darkly, his head snapping up to level him with a fierce glare he knows have cowed world leaders. But Tobirama knows his duty, loves his brother and does what he thinks is right—he maintains eye contact. “I know your opinion of him, Tobirama, and you know very well that I don’t share it. I don’t regret it. I won’t.”

“You’re blind, brother! And worse yet, willfully so!” He feels his hands clench around the edges of the wooden desk. He has always been pragmatic, has needed to be in order to balance out his brother’s head-in-the-clouds idealism. Hashirama is the dreamer, he is the executor. In innumerable ways Hashirama has protected him and is fully capable of protecting himself. But in these ways— _this way—_ he’s incredibly vulnerable. That is, in his opinion, the greatest threat Madara poses.

This is Tobirama’s place and he _refuses_ to back down.

“Why do you think he goes out on these suicide missions? Because he feels like he has no control in the village, he seeks it in battle! He’s a danger to the village and to you! Fighting’s all he’s good for.”

“That’s not true! He has other redeeming qualities! Who do you think first came up with the idea of this village with me?” The intensity of Hashirama’s glare decreases until all that remains is pity. “Is this really about Madara? Is this about the Uchiha? We’re not enemies anymore, that’s all in the past. Why can’t you accept this?”

“You know my stance on that. I don’t hate them, I’m _suspicious_ of them.” Tobirama says, frustrated beyond belief.

He knows what Hashirama is trying to get at. Some part of him will always recoil at the sight of an Uchiha. He realizes this, knows his bias. He’s not his brother who forgives and forgets too easily. Theirs was a generational war, one that spanned almost a thousand years. The loss of their family, their clansmen to the wartime brutality of Madara’s clan will always torment him.

In that way he and Madara are similar. But the comparison ends there because he accepts this—he’s not unwilling to trust them, but they have to go a little further than others to prove themselves. Suspicion, if justified, does not necessarily equate to persecution.

“Just think about it. Rationally. They’re a clan whose visual prowess grows by leaps and bounds each time they suffer personal loss, which is rife in our line of work. They don’t cope with suffering in the traditional way, they just get more powerful _._ And those who are the strongest—those who suffer the most—rise to the top of their leadership. All you need is one.”

“Madara,” Hashirama whispers. The underlying misery in the way he says the name makes Tobirama’s heart clench unpleasantly.

Hashirama has always shown his priorities in his expressions, careless of who else might see.

He won’t lie; it makes him jealous on occasion. Including now.

“He’s unstable, thinks he’s exempt from the command structure. That’s why I don’t see him as leadership material, why his own clan doesn’t see him as leadership material,” Tobirama says, shaking off his thoughts and steering the conversation back to the pertinent topic. “And what you’ve done is shove more power in his hands, unbalanced the status quo. It’s the last thing you should have done.”

“I have to disagree. At his core, he’s a protector, he’s got everyone’s best interests at heart.” If good intentions made for good leadership, they wouldn’t _be_ in this situation in the first place. The hard lines of Hashirama’s frown soften and he releases his grip on his own wrist with vague surprise, as if he hadn’t realized he was doing it. “But you may be right about his coping methods. He lost Izuna just over a year ago. I could never blame him for mourning, especially when we—” The words strangle themselves into silence and die in his throat. Tobirama’s weapon hand twitches and he jerks his gaze in the direction of the open window. “It doesn’t help that he just keeps losing more and more.”

“I admit, I wouldn’t have shed any tears if Madara had simply left the village.” That’s a partial lie. The man’s Perfect Susano’o is a menace and will haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. “But I’ve always preferred that he remain so we could watch him. This hasn’t changed my perspective, only that the importance of keeping him bound here has increased.”

Hashirama curls in on himself, throwing his head into his hands. “How?”

“If you haven’t noticed, brother,” Tobirama says, looking down his nose at him, “ _you’re_ the only thing keeping him here.”

“That’s not true! He still wants to protect the village,” Hashirama says into his hands, muffling his words. “He’s just going about it in a roundabout way. He believes that asserting power is the path to peace. I don’t agree with him, not in the way he’s trying to go about it, but—” He removes his face from his hands and looks up at him earnestly, worriedly. “Tobirama, am I naïve?”

Tobirama pinches the bridge of his nose. Of all the ways for him to realize, of course it would be through Madara. “Yes, you are. His perspective is realistic, and his concept isn’t exactly wrong, but the nuances of it are misguided.”

“You know I’m useless at politics,” Hashirama grumbles, leaning back in his seat. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not as if you don’t understand human nature so listen carefully,” Tobirama says, hoping beyond hope that Hashirama might take this to heart. It is the way he sees the world, after all. “There are people like you out there who don’t wish for war, but they want security. And that means amassing power to defend their own interests, whether it be through military might or through alliances. We’re seeing this in the formation of other villages.”

“That’s such a pessimistic perspective,” Hashirama groans, but his attention is rapt. He must really want to understand where Madara is coming from. He’s never listened to him before.

“Is it wrong, though?” Tobirama counters. “In a perfect world, your idea of cooperation would be right. The problem is that he would prefer peace come in the form of dominance, that the best way to ensure security is to achieve it now before anyone can challenge us. This whole business with attacking clans is just another way of saying that he wants us to stand above everyone else at their detriment, justifying it by believing that everyone else is out to do the same.”

“That’s an extremely pessimistic perspective.” He can see the beginnings of depression in the set of Hashirama’s shoulders. “So, I’m blind _and_ an idiot.”

“Yes, but your brand of idiocy is just what we need right now.” Tobirama puts a hand on his shoulder and Hashirama drags his face out from behind his hands again. “Maybe this is how it’s been so far, but it’s just one perspective. You’re trying to show everyone a new way of thinking, it’s obviously not going to go smoothly. Everyone’s hopes are built upon yours. Even Madara’s.” _Especially his._ “You can’t falter now.”

“Thank you, Tobirama. I don’t know what I’d do without you, honestly,” Hashirama tells him and he can tell it’s heartfelt, gratitude shining brightly in brown eyes. Tobirama nods once, more of a jerk of the chin, mentally beating his embarrassment down into a bloody pulp. “What should I do?”

“Use that skill in communication you value so much and talk to him, convince him out of his warpath if you can.” He understands Madara’s reasoning on the political level, but beyond that? How he’d arrived at that conclusion and how best to reverse it? That is likely between him and his brother. “He seeks stability by destroying clans? If he can get the respect of his clan back, that may anchor him, but I can’t say if that’ll be enough. Or even if it’s possible at this point. You should also see what you can find out about the Rinnegan so we know what we're dealing with.”

Maybe he should begin doomsday preparations for the village. There isn’t much of Madara that he’s seen that inspires confidence, unlike his brother who apparently has it in spades. Hashirama’s efforts may literally be the world’s saving grace… or maybe not. Best case scenario, Hashirama messes up, Madara obliterates his brother and is satisfied with that.

Unlikely. But hope never dies even for a pessimist like him.

“Everything is worth trying once.” Hashirama looks thoughtful, tapping his index finger on his knee idly. “Did I mention he can use _mokuton_ now? Because he can.”

Tobirama smacks his forehead again. Then he brings his fist down on his brother’s tousled head for good measure just _because he can._ “I cannot count the ways in which you have made things more complicated.” Hashirama has to own up to his mistake and Tobirama has to pick a god and start praying. That, and come up with failsafe measures for when Madara finally loses it. “You’re staying at the Uchiha compound?”

“An injury like that is no joke,” Hashirama says solemnly, nursing the abused spot on his head with slow circles. “And I’m not just saying that to avoid paperwork.”

“I’ll take care of it.” It’s not as if he doesn’t already. Between the village and Madara’s deteriorating sanity, Hashirama has the more difficult task by far. When his attention returns to his brother’s clothing, he cringes. He’s been holding it in for too long—Hashirama looks like he’s fought and lost a war with the daimyo’s standing army and he can’t believe he slept through the night caked in _dried blood._ “I suggest a bath and a change of clothes before you return.”

“Oh, yeah,” Hashirama says, looking down at himself and picking at the stains on his shirt, some of it flaking off. Tobirama’s face distorts further with revulsion. “Would you call a clan meet—er, not ours, I mean all the clans—for about a month from now?”

Tobirama nods, approving. “Make sure to come in to the office by the end of next week.”

He’s not pleased by the circumstances, not by far. Whether his brother realizes it or not, it would only have been a matter of time before Madara escalated to antagonizing other shinobi villages. Such acts would have fostered enmity between them all for generations to come, negating any advantages that the village system afforded them and rendering peace improbable.

Had he not gone, Tobirama might have been forced to do so himself—a last ditch attempt to get him to stand down, even in spite of the obvious power difference between them. But the goal would not have been to win, just to survive.

More than likely it would have ended in a fight. Madara would have cut ties, ending his association with the village and its reputation. It was a result Tobirama could live with, knowing his brother’s ability to match Madara in battle. This was no longer a certainty given the unknown capabilities of the Rinnegan, though between them, Hashirama still had the advantage of a larger chakra capacity and his Sage Mode to fall back on.

In another universe, this plan would have broken his brother’s heart. Now it was never to be, and he would never tell.

He can only hope that his brother’s choice works out for the best.

 

* * *

 

A torrential storm approaches in the periphery of his senses, prickling through the murk of his dreams. Through the walls, the dampened sound of a knock on the door.

“It’s Tobirama,” Madara says and rolls over, determined to ignore any business relating to the younger Senju.

“Ugh,” Hashirama says only. The sharp pull of fabric seems to indicate that he’s childishly pulled the blankets over his head. Then he seems to change his mind, blankets coming down with a soft thump. Hashirama’s presence nears his side and the brisk, minty wash of the medical diagnostic technique makes him shiver. He is unused to so much exposure to medical ninjutsu—very few of their clan were medically inclined, and he trusted few with his physical state, not when healing techniques could be turned to hurt with a simple change in intent. Hashirama hums to himself and makes the needed adjustments to his chakra levels.

_“Brother! Open this door right now!”_

“We can continue this later,” Hashirama says, standing up and sliding the door open. “I’ll be back soon!”

“Don’t bother,” Madara mumbles, but he’s already gone. He lets out a breath when both their chakra signatures disappear and reappear across the village. Likely to extract answers about him and his recent activities from Hashirama, away from his ears. It’s a sour thought, but he finds it difficult to care so early in the morning. Brushing hair out of his face and closing his eyes, he prepares to return to sleep. Something he hadn’t gotten much of last night.

There’s another knock on the door. Extending his senses again, he nearly chokes when he realizes it’s Elder Takara and Hikaku.

He hurries to the closet to dress himself in his usual outfit, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to get to the door. There’s a barely-present tremor in his hands when he opens the door.

“Madara-sama, good morning,” Elder Takara greets, bowing with the appropriate amount of respect in unison with Hikaku. He almost forgets to give the customary nod. “We heard of your return and wished to see if you were well, and we’ve brought breakfast for you in hopes of your good health.”

Hikaku hands him a black, two-tiered container. “Thank you,” he says, not knowing what else to say. Words fail, so he gestures them inside to the living room, placing the container in the kitchen and taking a seat at the low table opposite them.

He hasn’t met with any of his council in nearly three months, neatly avoiding them each time they came calling, still ardently bitter about their rejection of his concerns. Then, two out of the five elders in the council had suggested that he take an extended leave. He had seen the suggestion for what it was, so he did take a leave of sorts—just not the one that they’d intended for him.

Elder Takara as he remembers her is one of those of the council more favorable to him, a relationship partially credited to having a hand in raising him and his brothers as children. The rest of it was because they were both of a more militant, skeptical mind during the clan wars. After the formation of the village, she’d softened her stance somewhat. _‘Somewhat,’_ in his mind three months ago, was as good as a face-heel turn. Now her policies advocated increased clan contribution to the still-developing village military, talks of which he’s not been a part of. While historically she’s had a warm attitude towards him, he feels that he can expect some resentment regarding this in future discussions with her.

There were no shinobi in the Uchiha more talented than he and Izuna, but Hikaku came very close. Had he the Mangekyō, he might have been Izuna’s rival. As it was, he was likely the best person after him to best assess the talents of their shinobi to delegate assignments. He likely wishes to return the task back to him soon.

“I apologize, I don’t have any tea at the moment to serve us,” he tells them. Most of him cares little of what they think, a smaller part of him is mortified at the social gaffe. He makes a note to purchase more in the eventuality of more unexpected guests, since he won’t be going anywhere for the foreseeable future.

It strikes him that he may have been running away.

“It’s no bother. I just hope we aren’t imposing,” Takara says, waving it off. That’s a blatant lie if he’s heard one. The only way they’d catch him is if they imposed. “We heard the news about your arrival yesterday, but have yet to hear it from the source. Did you really take a serious injury saving Hashirama-sama?”

 _Hashirama-sama,_ he thinks acridly. Has Hashirama endeared himself so to his people that they already hold him in such high esteem? But she asked him a question, so he shakes off his anger.

He _didn’t_ save Hashirama. But he _did_ take a serious injury. But telling them the truth would make Hashirama a liar. He doesn’t—despite everything, he doesn’t want that. He also doesn’t want to reveal the true extent of his embarrassing mistake—they’ve seen him in battle—but he can’t come up with a better excuse to explain how he must remain off-active duty for about two months.

“Yes. I took a lance to the heart,” he admits, internally burning up with shame. Elder Takara doesn’t react, simply nodding, but Hikaku’s eyes widen. “Hashirama was able to repair the damage with his medical techniques.”

“How is that even possible?” Hikaku says, leaning forward with interest as Madara frowns at the ambiguity. The medical feat or him sustaining a hit? He’s unsure about whether he should disclose the true nature of the procedure and the development of the Rinnegan. Because he doesn’t know his standing in the leadership yet, he demurs. “We must owe him, then.”

“Owe him? I—”

He hasn’t thanked Hashirama for what he’s done.

“You must be on good terms now if you are both going out on missions together,” Takara comments. She’s fishing—he’d made his concerns about the Senju eminently clear to the council and they hadn’t been publicly seen in the village together for almost half a year.

“Hashirama? Yes,” he says, but he knows he’s taken too long to respond. Whether she interprets it as a lie or a recently-changed opinion, he can’t say. He’s grateful that she doesn’t press him further, but she looks ready to get to the heart of the matter.

“I suggest that we call a clan meeting tonight,” she says, and though she says _‘clan meeting’_ he hears _‘inquisition.’_ She’s being diplomatic now, but he doubts the rest of the Elders will be so kind. “Everyone wishes to know that you are well.”

More like, _‘everyone wishes to know where their clan head’s run off to all these months.’_

“That would be prudent,” Madara agrees, wishing for death already. “Meeting hall after the market closes.”

Takara nods and Hikaku takes the opportunity to bring up his own business, spreading out pages of reports on the table from his bag. “There was the matter of mission assignments I wanted to speak to you about, as well as the state of our finances.”

Right on target, apparently. Or almost. Madara sighs and listens for the first time in several months. Once Hikaku finishes explaining the current state of affairs to him with input from Elder Takara, an hour has passed. Madara’s legs are numb, his brain’s numb, and he’s absentmindedly wondering where Hashirama’s gone while he escorts them to the door.

“It was good to see you again, Madara-sama,” Hikaku says, bowing with Takara. “We should speak about the upcoming week’s mission assignments soon.”

 _Please don’t,_ Madara thinks. Instead he says, “Yes. I will see you both tonight.”

When the door slides shut behind them, he walks back to the living room to sit on a seat cushion. Then he lets himself fall forward onto the table, head buried in folded arms.

He doesn’t hate dealing with clan affairs. They bore him, but that alone doesn’t keep him from performing what’s expected of him. It’s just the memory of being rebuffed by so _many._ He doesn’t know whether he’s just a figurehead to them now or if they’re trying to placate him with simple tasks. He wants to protect them dearly, desperately, in any way he can. But another part of him can’t see why he tries so hard for a people who won’t acknowledge his efforts and _rebels._

They were all so complacent with their standing in the village.

It’s a slow death. But for whom?

An indeterminable amount of time passes before the front door slides open. Hashirama, freshly dressed in his usual offensively bright whites and greens instead of in yesterday’s bloodstains, walks in. He stops to observe the display before him.

“Council got to you, huh?” Hashirama says sympathetically, coming to sit on the cushion to his right.

“Clan meeting,” Madara says by way of explanation. “Tonight.”

Hashirama’s fingers tap thoughtfully against the surface of the table. “Are you going to tell them about the Rinnegan?”

A very good question. He cranes his neck up to face him, head still pillowed in his arms. “I’m leaning towards no.” Before Hashirama can ask for clarification, he continues. “You’re aware of that unfortunate rumor about my having stolen Izuna’s eyes?” He can feel Hashirama’s consternation even without looking at him. “Anything related to my eyes will likely cast further doubt on me at this point in time. They weren’t there. And who would believe such an outlandish story?”

“That is unfortunate,” Hashirama mutters. “What happens if they do find out?”

“Then they do but never figure out how. It just _‘happened.’_ A mysterious origin is better than a perversion of the truth. _”_

A stilted silence falls upon them until Hashirama speaks again, hesitant. “Those three months. You should tell them you’ve been going on long-term diplomatic missions by my request. That they were essential and because you’re the co-founder, you were the only one who could best represent us.”

He sits up, frowning. “More lies?”

“I don’t like it either,” Hashirama says, tone apologetic. “But you know they’re going to ask, and you need a decent explanation. I’m willing to back you in this. But I won’t back you if you go off by yourself to fight neutral parties again.”

Hashirama thinks he can leash him? How dare he? “I didn’t ask you to come with me or for your excuses.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt again,” Hashirama says, biting the edge of his lower lip and folding his hands into the sleeves of his haori. “That attack, it was clearly targeted at you. Perhaps I didn’t mention it before, but I feel like someone might be out there using you for their own agenda, turning you against the village while we’re still trying to find our footing.”

He doesn’t really know what to make of this statement. Was Hashirama trying to play him? If there was a choice between being used by someone else or Hashirama, negating the chance that he was right—

He says nothing.

“Besides, your clan needs you here,” Hashirama continues, leaning forward on his elbows and wearing that very _specific_ pleading look. “You can do a lot of good during your convalescence. They must miss seeing you. I know I did. They wouldn’t have come to see you if they didn’t.”

He’s never been able to win in an argument against Hashirama, he always gets his way by talking circles around him. It was lost before it even started, anyway: he already doubts himself and he’s tired. “Fine.” He drops his head back into his arms. But then he rises again, pointing at the container in the kitchen. “They brought breakfast. Help yourself.”

He pretends not to see Hashirama’s beaming smile as he ducks back down again. He attributes his erratic heartbeat to pre-meeting anxiety and Hashirama’s truly subpar healing.

 

* * *

 

He keeps his composure until he crosses the threshold of the house. The front door closes on his recently departed company, the sound drawing Hashirama’s attention.

“Welcome back,” Hashirama greets, setting aside the remains of his dinner. “How was the meet—”

A hand meets the wall with staggering force, the other flying up to cover his mouth. He coughs thrice in quick succession, blood oozing through the gaps in his fingers and in the next moment Hashirama is impossibly close, a glowing hand over his chest and his shoulder supporting his weight, easing him down to sit on one of the cushions on the living room floor.

He’s getting tired of seeing that particular shade of green.

“How in the world did you manage to rupture your lung again?” Hashirama says with strained disbelief, drawing Madara’s hand away from his mouth and coming up with a towel to wipe the blood off his fingers, one by one, with unwarranted care. “I must not have done a good job.”

 _“That’s_ how the meeting went,” Madara rasps, snatching the cloth out of Hashirama’s fingers and coughing into it again, vindictively pleased to see the hope in Hashirama’s expression wither into discontent. Good. Who gave him the right?

He can tell Hashirama wants to ask for the particulars, only hesitating because he doesn’t want to seem tactless. He doesn’t feel like indulging until he gives in first. If it looks like he’s twisting the other’s arm, it’s because he is.

Hashirama gives in because he _cares_ and he _has_ to meddle. “What happened?”

“I did what you said to do,” he spits out. The faces of the council flash through his mind, enraging him anew. “Told them that I’ve been going on diplomatic missions for you.”

“They didn’t believe you?”

“Worse.” Hashirama frowns, already expecting the worst. He doesn’t even know. “They ate it up! Nodded just like that, accepted it like it was integral to village security. Some of them were even proud, like it should have been such an _honor_ to be chosen for such an important mission by _you.”_

Hashirama flinches back, chakra disappearing from his hands as he does so. He looks every bit the actor he must be, as if he hadn’t expected this result when he’d suggested it. If it weren’t for his injury, he’d already be gone from here.

“Are you happy that your plan worked? And so well, too? How ironic that they think more highly of a rival clan leader than their own,” Madara seethes instead, taking in every detail of Hashirama’s crumbling expression. “You have friends here, you know. Especially in those who defected to you during the war. You want to know how they see me? They look at me and they still see the warmonger, despite the fact that it was I who shook hands with you.”

“Did you ever—” Hashirama swallows, hands tightening in the fabric of his hakama. “Before the truce, did you ever consider taking my hand?”

All the warmth in the world leaves him with nothing but the feeling of ice in his veins. He shouldn’t be surprised. Hashirama has always known where best to strike—it’s a question that lies too close to the heart.

“Did you expect me not to follow through with my threat on the day that we broke off our friendship?”

“I never—our friendship—” Hashirama looks like he’s the one who’s been mortally wounded, a hand coming up to hide his grimace. “So it is true. I did force your hand.” His eyes then cast themselves down and away, as if his gaze alone would cause further harm. He can’t stand it. He’s not fragile by any means and now that he has it, he _needs_ Hashirama’s full attention. He twists around fully to face Hashirama and bends at the elbows so that he can’t avoid his eyes. At this, Hashirama stiffens, back straightening and pulling back, putting a meaningless amount of distance between them.

“I intended to die that day,” Madara admits in an undertone. Hashirama flinches like it’d been shouted at him. “Call it what you like, but it was vengeance. I had nothing left to lose, wanted to go down fighting. You know why. None of my clan wanted that battle so soon after the last, not even the most hawkish of us. Only I.”

“Then why did you offer me that option?” Hashirama asks, voice tight and pained. “And what about your clan?”

“Because despite it all, I still _believed,”_ he barks into Hashirama’s face, putting himself a hand’s length closer. “I couldn’t _stop._ Our loss was inevitable, but I refused to see it. Their respect for me was in decline long before our truce—you were always too strong an opponent no matter what I did. I wanted to believe in something,but when it came down to it, I chose loyalty over a fantasy.” When the losses became too great and commitment failed him, the fallacy of sacrifices in vain carried him forwards until the end, when it all became pointless. “Little did I know that it was the other way around. I never stood a chance, not against you.”

“I did this?” Hashirama utters, horrified, carrying on some internal conversation with himself. Madara doesn’t know what he means. “I did. By force. That’s why you believe…”

“I couldn’t protect my clan in wartime. I thought I could in peacetime,” he continues, resting back on his heels and moving to get up. “But even now it’s the same. I’m always losing to you.”

He’s made his point; let Hashirama stew on that. All he wants to do now is sleep.

A hand reaches out and catches his wrist.

“I’m so sorry,” Hashirama says, voice cracking. The hold loosens. “I set a poor example. I should have tried harder to reach out to you, negotiated—”

That does it. Madara wrenches his hand out of his grip before darting back to seize Hashirama’s hand in his own, bruising grip. “If you’re so _sorry,_ help me save my clan!”

If Hashirama feels any discomfort, he doesn’t show it, doesn’t try to pry himself free. Instead, true to his nature, he latches on to any sign of hope. “What are we saving them from?”

“You’re going to be the Hokage.” He can see the protest coming and he won’t hear it, fingers tightening slightly in warning. “Don’t deny it—we both know it will be you, Tobirama after. After him will be some other Senju, or a student of yours. The line of succession will never change so drastically as to include an Uchiha.”

“You know the position is based on merit.” His attempts at reasoning only incense him. Can’t he just shut up and _listen?_ “Between genetics and training being the major factors contributing to skill, it would be natural that those trained under the strongest inherit our will. That doesn’t exclude the Uchiha.”

“It will. Tobirama in particular,” Madara says, tone black with hate. “He’s personally opposed. Consider: he is the most powerful Water Style user we’ve seen in generations, conveniently our clan’s elemental weakness. The Shadow Clone can be taught to anyone and is indistinguishable to the basic Sharingan. His Flying Raijin risks teleportation into a Susano’o, and instantaneous teleportation leaves no cues for a Sharingan user to predict. He’s developing _weapons_ against us.”

“That’s not true,” Hashirama says weakly, wounded on his brother’s behalf. Madara will never kill Tobirama, but that doesn’t mean he will hold back his criticisms, not even to Hashirama’s face. It’s only fair. “That was never his intent. Those jutsu are advantageous in other ways.”

“He believes we’re a cursed clan. Once you’re gone, what do you think he’ll do?” Hashirama’s silence is damning. He must have known about Tobirama’s views, then. “And we can do nothing because we’re subservient to the Hokage. And even now, so early on in the village’s lifespan, there are no Uchiha in positions of power.” Especially not him; he’s fallen from grace.

Fallen from grace, barely hanging on and dependent on Hashirama’s goodwill. He’s exhausted, run out of things to say. He doesn’t realize that his grip has loosened until Hashirama slips out of it and takes his bloodstained hand in his own, covering it with the other.

“You’re right,” Hashirama tells him, speaking softly. Madara looks up, bemused. “I said it before, but you have a point. Several good ones. I don’t think it’s too late to solve them. Don’t keep things to yourself next time.”

Has he finally won an argument? Or is he just trying to soothe him?

His right hand is colder than his left.

“You said that you’d listen to me.” Not in those words, but the meaning was the same. He— _his opinions_ didn’t seem to matter before, those months running up until now. Still, he has to know. “But why would you? I’m a relic of war, useless in peace.”

“You’re not the only one stuck in the past.” Hashirama looks at him now with an intensity he’s rarely seen directed at him before, like he wants to catalogue every detail, every discrepancy. “I wanted to believe everything was alright, fooled myself into thinking you hadn’t changed from when we were kids.”

The question comes out before he can fully think it over. “Disappointed?”

“Never.” His smile is sad. “Only in myself.”

 

* * *

 

The powers that be believe that today is a fine day for rain, and so it is. It’s a decent shower, stronger than a drizzle but less than an outright downpour and typical of the spring rains found in Fire. Hashirama hefts his umbrella to better shield his prize.

It’s been a little over a week since he’s started living among the Uchiha and to say that it’s been an enlightening experience wouldn’t do it justice. A week prior, he would have expected mild distrust to be the popular attitude towards him from Madara’s clan, understandably so and for obvious reasons. And some do meet him with hesitance borne out of that generational wariness for his clan. But for the most part they’ve been gracious, even welcoming, much as Madara had implied. Settling down has tempered something in them, something he’s seen uniformly again and again across all clans in Konoha.

Such a realization should have been flattering. Instead, the confirmation simply wounds. The outsider and the outcast, and the outsider is their preference—he wonders how they must look together.

He rounds the corner onto Madara’s street. What he sees makes him stop in his tracks, raindrops pattering against the wax paper of his umbrella.

Out on the veranda, sheltered from the rain, a gaggle of clan members surround Madara. His expression betrays no discomfort but his posture gives it away; he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, crossed protectively across his chest. It’s then that Madara’s attention snaps up from the conversation to Hashirama like a kunai finding its target. The three Uchiha civilians notice the shift in focus and are quick to respectfully bow out and depart.

The smile that springs to his face isn’t his best, but it’s convincing enough that it immediately puts Madara into a black mood. “Socializing? I would’ve thought something like that would be beneath you.”

Madara grunts as Hashirama nears. “Well-wishers. They’re civilians. What am I supposed to talk about with them? Someone else’s new kid?” Hashirama stops short in the middle of the street, just out of reach of the porch. Madara raises an eyebrow. “And where did you go? You weren’t there when I woke.”

“You could have followed me. Why didn’t you?”

“I could have,” Madara acknowledges, and his eyes turn skyward. He doesn’t get it, even shifting his umbrella out of the way to follow his gaze and letting himself get splattered with water before he shifts it back into place.

_And then he gets it._

He absolutely, positively _loses_ it, laughs more like howls as the realization sinks in and rattles around in his head like an itch that just won’t go away. Distantly he’s aware that he’s making a spectacle of himself, a few doors on the street sliding open to discover today’s entertainment.

“You—Madara Uchiha, scourge of the Land, afraid of puddles!”

“I am _not!_ Stop making a scene!” Madara fumes, fists clenched and flushing brightly. He looks like he wants to step out and punt him into next week, but _the rain_ is apparently an effective deterrent. Too effective. Hashirama loses it all over again. “Shout it a little louder, will you?”

“Sure,” Hashirama gets out in between guffaws. “Everyone! Big, scary Madara’s terrified of—”

“You’re dead, Senju!”

Madara sucks in a breath that looks like the beginnings of a _katon,_ intent on vaporizing his sworn enemy—him, or the rain?—before Hashirama has the presence of mind to remember that mass destruction was not on the agenda today. He moves forward under the shelter of the veranda, dropping a hand on Madara’s wrist and dismissing the half-formed seal. Passing him, he closes the umbrella, propping it up against the siding to dry.

“Okay, okay,” Hashirama huffs. He’s not laughing anymore, but his cheeks still hurt from grinning so much. “I didn’t go out to rile you up. I got you a present.”

Madara’s eyes narrow but he sets aside his anger in favor of curiosity as Hashirama hands him the paper bag. “What is it?”

“Isn’t the point of a present to open it and find out?”

Madara rolls his eyes at this and unfolds the top of the bag, shoving a hand in and fishing out a rice cracker. He blinks once, turning it over in his fingers. “Senbei?”

“Yeah, I discovered a bakery close to here in the compound,” he says, pointing in the northeasterly direction. One Uchiha had recommended it when he’d asked about gifts, even introducing him to the couple that ran it. “I think it’s the first of its kind in the village. At least, we don’t have one.”

“It’s a bit of a clan specialty,” Madara says, looking at the cracker with an indescribable emotion. “We didn’t often have the resources to produce them during the—” he pauses with a grimace, slipping the cracker back in the bag, “—our war. I suppose I should take this as a good sign.”

Hashirama frowns. He hadn’t meant to evoke memories of their conflict with his intended gift. Madara returns the bag of crackers to him.

“Wait here,” he says, disappearing into the house. Hashirama watches him go and slides down to sit against the siding.

What he _had_ intended was something to smooth over the rough edges of that night. If the reality of Madara’s situation hadn’t been clear before this point, Madara had painted it for him in stark relief then. To hear what his friend has been dealing with all these months, all his concerns, the chain of events he’d obliviously set into motion—it was disturbing.

And depressing. He's catastrophically failed as a friend.

Madara’s reputation had been established in a time of war. People didn’t simply forget this. Opinions didn’t swing towards positivity at the drop of a hat like they did the other way around and Madara had isolated himself from village affairs for _months,_ a fact Hashirama will hate himself forever for not acting on. An absent leader did not reflect well on leadership capability.

By having Madara tell his clan that he’d been absent for the purpose of village diplomacy, Hashirama ensured that Madara’s reputation was tied to his. But he worries—should they look further and figure that Madara’s destruction was unjust and condoned, neither of them would be fit to lead. He hopes that his reputation is strong enough for them to stick with their initial conclusion.

He hates lying. But to save his friend, he’ll do anything. Even gamble his reputation on it.

Lost in thought, a fluffy white towel smacks him squarely in the face. As he draws the towel away, a tray settles itself in the space beside him. Madara drops to the floor on the other side of it and plucks the bag out of his arms.

“You eat them with tea.” Madara reaches in and drops a few on the tray. He pours them each a cup of green tea and selects a cracker to bite into, breaking it with a sharp crack. When Hashirama doesn’t move, he fixes him with an irritated look. “Dry yourself off, you look like a drowned rat.”

“Thanks,” Hashirama says, smiling again. How very like him to pair gratitude with irritation. “I didn’t know that. I haven’t really had the opportunity to discover new snacks.”

“Was this a gift for you or me?” Madara sighs, blowing over the surface of his tea. In the early chill of the morning, visible steam rises off the surface of the hot liquid, spiraling, then vanishing up and into the air.

“Maybe both,” Hashirama admits, draping the towel over his shoulders after his hair is sufficiently dry. He picks up a cracker and tries it. It’s pleasantly salty, enhanced by the seaweed, and the crisp texture of the baked rice is unlike anything he’s tried before. He lights up. “I think I’ve found a new favorite snack.”

“Everything’s your new favorite snack.” Hashirama opens his mouth to argue but he realizes that Madara has a point and shuts it. They spend the next few minutes working through the crackers and tea before Hashirama voices something that’s been on his mind for the better part of the week.

“Is it me, or are there fewer Uchiha on the streets?” Madara shoots him a questioning look over the rim of his cup. “I mean, the census suggests that the clan has more people than I’ve actually seen around.”

“You should know this, but a greater proportion of us are shinobi or possess some level of shinobi skill than in yours,” Madara tells him after a moment. “They’re likely out completing missions.”

Hashirama winces. He’s right—the mission statistics flash before him in his mind. Every shinobi was expected to contribute to the village by completing missions and all of them have been running them back-to-back, ceaselessly, to generate funding for the village—the daimyo’s generosity only went so far.

The Senju were larger by virtue of incorporating more non-shinobi members, generally more open to outsiders than most other clans. The Uchiha were their polar opposites in terms of their policy of assimilation and typical of clans that held a prominent, dominant bloodline limit like the Hyuga. They didn’t trust easily—outsiders risked defection, and a rogue branch could be used against them politically and militarily. The closed layout of their complex could be said to be a metaphor for their mindset.

Though the war of attrition hit them both hard, the reality was that more Uchiha had perished during their conflict. They compensated for their lack of numbers with skill. Those Uchiha fortunate enough to emerge with their lives counted themselves among some of their strongest ninja.

Talented ninja were in very high demand. That was possibly a factor in Madara’s complaint about the scarcity of Uchiha in politics—though Madara himself could improve in this area—they were eager to prove themselves useful, volunteering for high-risk, high-profit missions. Most just weren’t around long enough to participate, and the village ran on something of a meritocratic system.

Now that the problems have been pointed out to him, he can’t stop _seeing_ them.

Hashirama sighs, depression falling over him like the rain beyond the porch. “Sorry.”

“Why?” Madara says, looking like he wants to shake him for being so vague. And for apologizing so much recently. “It’s not as if your clan isn’t pulling its weight as well.”

“It’s unfair, you were right. We should have taken into account the proportion of shinobi running missions,” he says, casting a regretful glance in the direction of the office. “And a lot of people must be lonely here waiting for their loved ones to come back.”

 _“Lonely?”_ Madara repeats, sneering at the very notion. Hashirama wonders if he’s offended. He hadn’t meant to imply that his clan wasn’t capable of the workload. “No one feels like that. They know their duty.”

“To the village? Shinobi are people too, people with families.” He knows that this statement is somewhat revolutionary for someone of his station and era, and he sees this in the widening of Madara’s eyes. It shouldn’t surprise him, Hashirama thinks bitterly, because they’d thought along the same lines as children. “And I thought you didn’t agree with the concept of the village.”

“They obviously do.” He looks displeased to have been caught expressing such a sentiment but Hashirama interprets it as auspicious, an indication that he still believes in their dream. Though Madara refuses to comment further, almost wielding his teacup as a defense against an interrogation.

Magnanimously, he lets it slide, taking the second-to-last cracker and discreetly shifting the last one closer to Madara. “At any rate, I’ve been enjoying this cultural exchange. Maybe we should have our clan members do something similar?”

“I—what?” Madara sputters, as if he’d suggested that aliens have come down to wreak havoc on all of civilization. “Senju and Uchiha just—mixing, just like that?”

“Why not? We’re doing just fine.” It’s a bold statement to make, especially in light of the current state of their relationship, but at the moment he feels foolish enough to try it. That is, until Madara jerks his gaze up and away at the gray skies, still supplying the partially-paved roads with water. Doubt supplants bravado and he’s compelled to add, “Unless we’re not?”

“You’re really something.” His friend snatches up the last cracker and finishes it off. “Centuries of differences and hostility don’t just resolve themselves with people shuffling around. And even if we got over the culture clash, there’s still the bloodline limits to consider; blood binds us in a way different from other bonds.”

He doesn’t miss the implication, even if it was unintentional. “It’ll take time.” Internally, he sighs. Madara has a point. Clans were formed from a shared lineage, common techniques, or a general need for security that turned into familial relation. Some were simply bound more tightly than others. “Actually, this is something I’ve been thinking about for a while, but I’d like the Senju to stop thinking of themselves as Senju and start thinking of themselves as villagers first. A new start. Have them make names for themselves, free of the burden of our bloody reputation. If clan identity is lost and we’re no longer a singular entity, I think the village would be better for it.”

Of all the reactions he’d expected from his friend, a face full of tea is not one of them. Conveniently enough he has a towel, so he doesn’t mind terribly. “You want _what?_ ” Madara sets down his cup with a forceful clatter and shakes him by one shoulder, the motion making his head nod back and forth. “Are you _insane?_ Dissolve your clan? Don’t you Senju have things to be proud of?”

“Knowing a lot of jutsu is an easily shared and transferable skill,” Hashirama points out, watching Madara flounder for a response. He doesn’t understand why he’s so worked up about his plans for the Senju. “I understand why you might think differently for your own, given the Sharingan; your point about bloodline limits was valid. I must admit, I do admire the close-knit sense of family your clan has.”

“It’s just that—you’re strong—your clan is a worthy adversary.” The sentence fragments run over each other and blend, as if urgency was the sole prerequisite to winning the argument. The meaning of the words strike Madara a few seconds after the fact and he looks positively aghast, finally yanking his hand back as if burned and hiding his face with it. When he removes it, he makes one last attempt at clarification. “I mean—your clan isn’t without a bloodline limit either, even if it is an extremely recessive trait. And your extensive vitality still sets you apart.”

“Who are you trying to convince?” Hashirama says, beyond amused. “I appreciate the compliment, though.”

“Facts aren’t compliments,” Madara grouses, coming back to himself. The tension drains from his posture as he leans back against the house. “It’s ambitious, but it won’t be so easy for the Uchiha to do the same.”

“Nothing’s ever that easy,” he acknowledges, looking back out at the streets. Madara had previously expressed his dismay at the possibility of Senju dominance—if his wish came true and all clans transcended their boundaries, including the Uchiha, would Madara regard that a loss of identity? Probably. The Uchiha were so proud of their hard-won, frightening reputation.

Perhaps he was being a little overzealous—they didn’t need to be so uniformly assimilated, as long as they were able to put the village first.

A gust of wind briefly causes the rain to come down harder and his attention is drawn back to the growing size of the puddles on the street. The urge to laugh comes back in force. Madara’s keen eyes catch the shift in expression, notes his line of sight.

_“No.”_

“I have to know,” Hashirama says, poorly attempting to hide his grin behind his hand. “Is it because of the mission?”

“Are you always this insensitive?” Madara demands, incredulous. Because he’s neatly sidestepped the question, Hashirama doubles over again with laughter unfettered, desperately clutching his stomach. Madara has _never_ shied away from water or anything else, fearless on the battlefield even when fighting against Hashirama himself. Save for that unfortunate trait of disliking people standing behind him, to see him shy away from _puddles_ now is just—it just feeds back into his hysteria. He has no doubt that he’ll get over it eventually, probably very soon, which makes it all the more important to laugh now.

Madara tires of his humiliation. “You think being mortally wounded by a puddle is _funny?”_ He leans over and pinches Hashirama’s nostrils shut, as if doing so will cease his whooping laugher. It doesn’t, just makes his laugh more nasal; he’s practically honking now and that just makes the fingers clamp down harder. But the blocked airflow does force him to calm down. He bats the hand away once he’s done laughing at Madara’s expense, who looks downright sullen by the end of it.

But he’s happy. Deliriously so, because that lingering tension between them after that night has broken. The problems between them still remain, heavy like the storm clouds in the sky, but far above them enough now that he can breathe freely again.

“Done?”

“For now,” he says, wiping away his tears with the towel and massaging his reddened nose. “You’re healing well. We should think about getting you some light exercise.”

“Finally,” Madara says, the shine in his eyes like the moment before black transitions into red. Hashirama knows that restless look, has worn it himself. They are both shinobi after all. He knows he must be climbing the walls at having to wait to be able to try out the Rinnegan, but how is he going to learn its techniques? Experimentation?

“I said _light_ exercise, like walking or jogging, forms. I’m not saying you should train at the academy, but—” He stops himself. “You should train at the academy.”

Madara stares at him like he’s finally gone mad. “You’re joking.”

 

* * *

 

“You weren’t joking?”

Hashirama prods his friend forward with a hand on the shoulder. It feels a bit like herding cats. “Why is everyone asking me that?”

He hasn’t visited the academy in a while. Madara, even longer.

It’s one of his favorite places in Konoha.

It was his hope that by bringing his friend there, he’d be reminded of why they’d founded the village in the first place. That, and he was looking ready to claw his own eyes out due to his enforced sedentary lifestyle. Hashirama was pleased to note that he was reintegrating into the duties of a clan leader, the elders of his clan ceding back some of the duties he’d abandoned back to him, a light load considerate of his recovery. Madara accepted these tasks with grudging acceptance, though every time he picked up a balance statement he looked ready to bolt again. Still, even these mundane responsibilities seemed to mollify him. For his part, Hashirama pretty much exuded relief—between finding things to keep his friend busy and monitoring his health, he considered this a victory.

But everyone needed fresh air, him included. And the academy is the perfect place for non-strenuous activity.

“I hope you don’t intend on forcing us to train with children,” Madara says, giving him the side-eye. “We’re far above their level.”

“Do you just not want to be seen flipping kids?” Hashirama asks, sticking out an arm when Madara tries to circle around him. Exactly like herding cats. “If you don’t want to go as yourself, why don’t you use the transformation jutsu and go as your younger self? It’d be really cute.”

Madara levels him with that look that tells him that if he could disown him, he would. Could you even disown your friends? Madara would find a way. “The only way I would ever entertain that idea is if you suffer as well. I want to laugh at that ridiculous bowl-cut of yours again.”

“Very low blow,” he says, dejected. Madara is distracted enough by his own amusement for him to subtly steer them into the courtyard of the academy.

The academy building is of his make, but he’d actually spent time drawing up blueprints with Tobirama and the ninja interested in teaching there instead of constructing a stock building. As if he would let one of the symbols of the village be anything but extraordinary.

Madara had a hand in it too. Hashirama hopes that he will recognize his own touch in the structures.

The shinobi standing guard outside the building are Nara, judging by the crests sewn on their shoulders, likely off their teaching shifts. It doesn’t surprise him—of all the clans in the village, the Nara are the most supportive of education given their high esteem for intelligence. He knows from the employment reports that a fair share of instructors are Nara, as well. Madara inspects them with squinted eyes—a vestige of his time without the Eternal Mangekyō—as the shinobi nod at them, deferential.

The wooden hallways are suffused with the warmth of the early morning sunlight, casting everything in warm, golden tones. Through the entrance hall, he directs them down the classroom halls in search of an instructor.

There’s a Shimura shinobi posting sheets on a board outside a classroom. Hashirama waves brightly to her. “Good morning!”

The Shimura nin doesn’t seem to believe what she’s seeing. Her grip on the papers slip, but she’s too good to let them fall. “Ah! Uh, good morning, Senju-sama.” Then she notices the shadow looming behind him. “Uchiha-sama. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Is there a class you need help with today?” Madara looks ready to protest but he’s quick to silence him with his shoulder. “We thought it would be nice to do something for the younger generation if we could.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she says, warming up and returning his smile. She rifles through her papers, probably looking for openings. Madara takes a step forward, ready to excuse himself. Hashirama counters by taking a step to the side and obstructing her view of him. “Would you each like to take a class? We’ve got an older class learning kenjutsu and a younger class on basic chakra theory.”

“We’ll take the older class and go together, thank you,” Hashirama says brightly and she points them down to a classroom door second from the end of the hallway, thanking them again for their assistance. Imagine that, Madara teaching hyperactive six-year-olds _theory._ He doesn’t know who would be bored faster, Madara or the children. No, kenjutsu is perfect for their purposes.

But before that, a yank on his collar holds him back from opening the classroom door. “You never said that we’d be _teaching_ them,” Madara hisses at him, vaguely panicked.

“It will be fine. You’re a natural at this,” he assures him, because he’s reasonably certain that it will be fine. Experience had been their teacher and a classroom setting doesn’t change that—actions spoke louder than words and Madara’s mastery in kenjutsu justified itself. “Just do what you do best and you can’t go wrong. Besides, I’ll be there too.”

Before his friend can protest further, Hashirama wraps his hand around his wrist and slides open the classroom door.

The low din of conversation dies a screaming death as the group of children sight them. The group of students, numbering around thirty and around ten years old and older, stand up and bow their greetings. “Good morning,” they call out in unison. He chuckles, catching some of them exchanging rapid-fire, confused looks at each other. Others gawk at Madara. His reputation seems to precede him—half the class looks openly intimidated by his scowl, and it isn’t even meant for them.

“Morning,” Hashirama says, nudging his friend further into the room. “I know we’re not your usual teachers, but we thought we’d help them out today.” He points a thumb at himself. “It’s very nice to meet you all. I’m Hashirama of the Senju clan, and my friend here is...”

Madara mumbles something that’s supposed to be his introduction. Hashirama elbows him and earns himself a glare. “Uchiha. Madara.”

“Yeah, so...” He starts opening the drawers of the desk and slamming others, locating the lesson plan and flipping through it. “Right from the basics, then. Let’s go out to the second training field.”

The training field they go to isn’t much more than an open clearing behind the building, dummies and equipment scattered around the perimeter. But shinobi have never required much more than space and the determination to improve. Field two in particular is stocked to the brim with weapons.

Hashirama waves them over to the stacks of katana. “Okay, everyone choose a sword for today!” When he sees the kids begin to pile over each other in their haste to get the ‘best’ swords, he adds, “No pushing! All of them are equally good!” Not to mention that the blades were dulled, anyway.

After the students have dispersed back onto the open field, he selects a sword from the remaining stock. Madara looks over the group with a discerning eye, evaluating them already. “I can’t see why you thought this was a good idea.”

“I have the best ideas,” he argues back, turning around and pushing the sword into Madara’s hands. “Show them how it’s done.”

The students watch this exchange with innocent confusion, unaware of the destructive potential a fight between their interim teachers could have. But at their age, they’re old enough to recognize the murderous look sparking in Madara’s eyes. A blithe smile is Hashirama’s singular response.

It’s a clash of wills and they’re the battleground.

When the silence is finally broken, they all flinch. Steel shrieks against lacquer as a sword is unsheathed. “Get to know your blade, treat it like an extension of yourself. You should know its weight, its length, how to grip it—like this—how far your own reach is with it. Spread out far away from each other and _don’t hit anyone._ Then we’ll see about the motion of drawing it from the sheath.”

Hashirama sighs with relief. He hadn’t been certain that his friend would humor him, but someone was looking out for him today. He watches the children imitate Madara’s motions with wobbling arms, blades tipping from side to side. They’re starting to forget to be intimidated as they get into the exercise, and his friend is proving himself to be a natural teacher, weaving through the sea of waving steel and correcting grips and postures.

It’s nice.

And Tobirama said that Madara was good for nothing but war. He won’t deny that one of his motivations for bringing his friend here was to prove his brother wrong. But skill in battle…

Hashirama’s gaze slips from the group to the ground.

Madara was fortunate, then, that they were a military organization. War was very likely not something going obsolete any time soon despite his fervent desire for peace; there was no need to fear not having a place in it. Even the students training here now would go on to be a part of their military someday.

Sometimes he thinks that he’s only extended their lifespans just enough to realize how little they’ve experienced of life, how little they all really know.

“Never let your enemy know the length of your sword, hide it as best you can with your body, like this. Draw it only when you’re within striking distance of your enemy and you’re reasonably certain you can deliver a killing blow or when you must defend yourself.”

Madara reclaiming his place amongst his peers is not enough—he needs to accomplish something to be known for outside of what’s expected of him to turn opinion. If even he says that war is his only talent, then there are no shortage of positions available. Then he will be in a position to address his concerns about his clan. But before that—

Before that, Hashirama has to compromise. Madara was right. The position of Hokage was, in practice, a position of absolute power despite it being an elected position. It had been agreed as such, because extensive bureaucracy was not conducive in conflict, which required quick turnarounds. If he wants to preserve the integrity of the clans, that meant allocating some measure of political power to them—something he’d been trying to prevent from the start. He was aware of how fragile their alliances were at this stage, and they couldn’t afford clans pushing their own agendas and threatening disunity.

“Madara-sama, what about short swords? Are they any different?”

“Ah. Kagami, is it? They’re different. It’s more about footwork. But don’t get ahead of yourself.”

But Madara also had a point that clans like his own and the Hyuga would persist for quite some time, and they had the right to defend themselves. He has to propose a solution before the clan meet in two weeks. The Hokage vote was in a month and a half and immediately after that would be their first meeting with the Uzushio delegation to help out with the problem of the tailed beasts that started three years ago—

He jumps when a sword embeds itself in the ground in front of him.

“You’re not even teaching and you look like you’re having a hard time.”

He relaxes his shoulders, forcing himself to forget the problems of the future. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking about how you’re a great teacher.”

Madara scoffs at this, gesturing at the group with a flippant hand. But it’s not as dismissive as he would have expected. “It’s probably because they won’t talk back.”

He doesn’t think that’s true. If it were, then none of them would have spoken up. Given a little more time, he thinks that they could grow fond of Madara and likewise. He looks over the group working through the repetition of three basic katas. It’s nostalgic, reminds him of getting up with the sun and training with his brothers.

The events of his life have always run on some schedule or another.

“Do you wonder what it’d be like if we weren’t shinobi?”

“Where did this come from?” Madara says, taken aback and blinking at him with something that might be concern. “I seem to remember a similarly inane conversation from when we were kids. What do you see yourself doing, then?”

“Hm, a florist?” It seems to be the natural conclusion, given his abilities. It doesn’t sound so bad, to be surrounded by beauty and to be able to pass it onto others.

Madara laughs at the image, making him puff up with indignation. He never takes his ideas seriously. “Pretty, but that’s not what you said before.” He brings a hand to his chin, a faraway look in his eyes. Hashirama is frankly astonished he’s humored him this far. “Didn’t you say something along the lines of a carpenter? I didn’t know you had the _mokuton_ then, but I remember you saying that they had you building quite a bit, so you might as well. No, I think a politician suits you better.” Hashirama swears—how many times does he have to say he’s useless at politics before it sticks? “A diplomat, then.”

Wait. They’ve had this conversation before? A sharp pang of guilt manifests itself as a solid weight in the pit of his stomach. He can’t remember it, can’t remember what Madara’s own answer might have been.

But he shakes it off—the present is what matters.

“And you? Maybe a falconer?” He could never forget Randori, cutting a striking figure among the trees, white on green. She was obviously well-cared for. “Or a teacher, like you’re doing now?”

There’s initially nothing to suggest that he’s stepped on a conversational landmine—at first, Madara appears to give it some thought, but then the silence turns from contemplative to dismal. “No, I can’t see myself fitting in any other occupation.”

He looks away, shoulders hunching slightly with disappointment. That was the answer he’d been afraid to hear. To know that there were shinobi out there who were so steeped in blood and death such that they believed that they were inseparable from their profession, could not fathom an alternate path. That Madara was one of them.

It is difficult to pick up the sword, but harder to put it down.

Hashirama’s gaze settles back on the students. “Eventually, I want children to be able to choose not to become shinobi.”

His statement pulls Madara out of his mood. He regards him with a look that asks him if he’s been hit with a particularly virulent bout of stupidity. “We have that. They’re called civilians.”

“I meant children of shinobi clans! Like, even if they had the talent, it wouldn’t be an obligation anymore. Not to survive or not out of a sense of loyalty to the clan.”

“You want them to be… weaker?” Madara sighs, but there’s a quality to his tone that suggests warmth. He stretches out to pull the sword out of the ground, sheathing it in the same motion and slinging it over his shoulder. “They don’t call you a visionary for nothing. Sometimes I can’t understand what you’re thinking.”

Tobirama’s comment about the Uchiha and personal loss surfaces and combines with Madara’s admission, causing him to blurt out, “I hope that we can one day live in a world where none of your clan members need ever awaken the Sharingan.”

Madara’s lips thin and his eyes narrow dangerously. “You want us to be weaker?”

“No,” he says, steady in the face of the storm. “I meant that someday, I hope that none of you are ever forced to suffer through such loss again.”

Madara shoves his head down with a hand, jolted sharply downward until his chin crashes against his chest. “You’re hopeless.” The hard pressure lessens to swing around to the other side of the spectrum, feather-light, and when he expects to be released—

Madara’s palm glides the short distance along the curve of the back of his head and neck, fingers ghosting through hair.

But quick as it had come, it’s gone, and he’s left wondering if he’d just imagined it all.

Madara is already striding away, throwing the practice sword over his shoulder at him. He catches it on reflex. “Make yourself useful for once and help me teach these brats.”

“Of course, Uchiha _-sensei,”_ he answers, and follows through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sweet sassy molassy, this totally got out of hand


End file.
